Once in the Winter's Tide
by LA Knight
Summary: Memory binds the thread of who and what we are. Frayed, coming undone, the Winter Soldier has to wonder: if the assassin dies, what is left of the man? In the small town of Whistle-Stop, Virginia, as off the grid as he can get, he'll find the answer. But the shadows are still hunting for him...
1. One Last Mission

_**Author's Note**__: __hello, everybody! This is my new fanfic for Captain America because wo doesn't love Bucky? You gotta be crazy not to love Bucky. I was mostly ambivalent toward him in the first film, but after seeing him in_ Captain America 2_ and learning his story between films, I knew I had to do something. So here it is! This story is a dual-storyline, one in the past and one in the present, with the present storyline set a year after_ Captain America 2_ and the storyline of the past set in between_ Captain America 2_ and the present. So let's hop to it! Enjoy! Let me know what you think!_

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**Once in the Winter's Tide**

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**Chapter One**

**One Last Mission**

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The concrete wept condensation that slicked down his back as he leaned hard against the compound wall, trying to shove away the searing in his shoulder, the merciless pain in his gut. Blackness pulsed all around him, rife with shards of ice-cold fear scraping beneath his clammy skin. Strange. He'd never felt fear on one of his missions before, except…except in that moment when the support struts on the SHIELD Insight Helicarrier had collapsed, pinning him to the floor. Then death had whispered in his ear like a shadow lover, a serpentine hiss of failure and pain—pain even worse than the new gunshot wound in his gut, pain like the fiery ice of cryo-sleep when his handlers had shoved him into that coffin and sent winter pumping through him like death.

He pressed his hand hard to the ragged hole in his belly. Hot blood spilled over his fingers. For anyone else, it would've been fatal. But he was different from other men, stronger, faster, better. This would heal…but it would also get in his way. He had a mission to complete. He'd sworn after the Insight Helicarrier incident that he wouldn't take on another task, another mission, until he'd made sense of the memories whispering through the back of his skull.

But this one was different. He'd sworn not to take another mission, but he owed a debt to someone. That debt had driven him to this underground compound, to retrieve something invaluable. He wouldn't go back until it was safe again.

Which meant he was going to need help, because he was running out of time.

His metal hand, covered by a black leather glove, reached into an inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small, untraceable cell phone. It had one use and one use only; he'd set it up that way to ensure no one could use it against him. The soldiers protecting his current target didn't have the means to torture the proper code from him, and once a code was sent—correct or not—an EMP surge would fry the phone's circuits and leave it unusable.

The code took mere seconds to punch in and send via text. Then the phone crackled, sparked, and went dark. He stuck it back in his pocket—no point in leaving evidence behind for the guards to discover.

Forcing himself to his feet, he moved on down the darkened corridor, ears and eyes open for enemies, blood soaking his jacket.

**.**

In a cheery, industrial-sized kitchen the ovens had been turned off and were now cooling down for the night. The air was redolent with the sugary, gooey aroma of chocolate chip cookies, the tang of lemon bars, and the sweetness of freshly-made, cooling caramel drizzle. The cookie-shaped clock on the wall ticked to ten-thirty-four. A bedazzled, cookie-dough-brown Smartphone buzzed on a smooth kitchen counter of polished walnut. Slender fingers picked it up and touched the screen. _New text_ flashed across the screen. When the text opened, a message blinked into view.

_Jack Frost is in the hands of the stars_

The message flashed twice before disappearing. Setting the phone down, the recipient moved to the walnut cabinets under the long counter. Opening one revealed several dozen sacks of different flours labeled with multicolored paper blossoms. Inside a white bag with a blue China aster label in the very back of the cupboard, questing fingers drew out a slim, black tablet computer sealed away in a Ziploc bag to protect it from the sack of winter barley flour. Touching the screen brought it to life. Instructions appeared within seconds of waking the tablet and then vanished again.

_Parking garage, Verdiers St. and 4th, Roanoke VA_

When the lights in the kitchen had gone dark and the doors shut, the ovens were cold, the bag of barley flour was back in its place, the cabinets were closed once more, and everything was silent and still.

A green Dodge mini-van pulled out of the parking lot. In the back, two children slept clutching backpacks—one with Elsa from _Frozen_, one with Iron Man. On the floor at their feet was another bag with Thor's hammer. A pack with the dinosaurs from _The Land Before Time_ sat on the bench-seat beside a car-seat holding a sleeping three-year-old.

Up front, a mutant drove with fingers curled tight around the wheel, knuckles white in the passing glow of the street lights. On the passenger seat was the tablet and a Browning Hi-Power with several magazine clips. On the floor was a backpack the mutant hadn't packed or even looked into. The mini-van's tires crunched over the GPS device that had once sat on the dash, destroying any chance that it could be used to track the vehicle.

It probably didn't matter. Once they got to the parking garage in Roanoke, they were getting a new car, courtesy of the person who'd sent the original text message. But instructions were instructions. Lives could depend on obeying them. Precious lives, like the three children sleeping in the backseat of the car.

And besides, it was nearly two hours to Roanoke. Who knew what might happen before then?

**.**

Natasha Romanoff—birth name, Natalya Romanova, codename Black Widow—strode down the hall toward the CEO's office of Stark Industries. The Stark Industries building gleamed like a giant of chrome and white marble with electric cables and high-tech circuits for veins and nerves. The former SHIELD agent smoothed down her black skirt. The point of the somewhat matronly woman's suit, as well as the severe but reserved makeup and hair, was to give off the impression of a driven business woman who focused so much on looking mature and coming across as a corporate threat that she wouldn't know a Glock from a Magnum.

It was all a show for the Stark Industries staff. Tony Stark, Pepper Potts, and their two guests knew very well that Natalie Roman, as she'd been known during her brief stint working undercover at Stark Industries for Director Fury, was nothing if not a threat. A woman didn't become one of SHIELD's best agents on her looks alone.

Her fingers curled around the large, manila envelope in her grip. She'd told a friend of hers that pulling on certain threads might not be a good idea, but Steve had wanted to do it anyway. She supposed she could understand. If it had been Clint, for example, she'd have gone above and beyond what even SHIELD might expect to protect him, to find him, to help him. That was her one weakness, her Achilles' heel. Very few people knew about it. One had until semi-recently been rotting in an Asgardian prison somewhere in a far galaxy, and until two years ago she'd fully expected him to rot there for the rest of his pseudo-immortal life, since Thor hadn't given her the satisfaction of putting a bullet in his head. The other three were people she trusted with the information: Director Fury, Agent Coulson, and Agent Hill. Agent Coulson was dead, so that left two people in the world who knew her only weakness.

The old Natasha might not have been okay with that, but the one who'd saved the world with Iron Man once upon a time, the Avengers, and even Captain America himself…that Natasha was okay with trusting them just a little.

Steve had trusted those same people, and Natasha, with one of his weaknesses: Lieutenant James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes. The Winter Soldier. The HYDRA hitman with the mechanical arm and a mostly-wiped memory. He'd put a bullet through Natasha's lower left abdomen once to assassinate an engineer she'd been protecting. He'd put another bullet through her left shoulder about a year ago, trying to kill _her_ this time. He'd shot Cap in the thigh, shoulder, and twice in the abdomen trying to stop the super-soldier from preventing the murders of over a million people.

He'd also saved Steve from drowning after Steve fell from the Insight Helicarrier.

After that, he'd dropped off the grid. Steve had gone looking for him with a friend, Sam, codename Falcon, former paramilitary rescue. Tasha had it on good authority that so far, Steve hadn't had much luck. That was why he was here at Stark Industries today—asking for help from Iron Man. Except she also had it on good authority that whatever Tony would dig up would be out of date, thanks to the manila envelope in her hand.

Happy Hogan, Stark's bodyguard and chauffer, half rose from his seat beside a television playing an episode of _Downton Abbey_ when she clicked her way into the waiting lounge in her stiletto heels. She just looked at him. Happy was good at his job, and he'd helped her—if you could call it that—take out some goons guarding a warehouse full of important technology back when she'd been undercover working alongside Tony. But Happy wasn't a SHIELD agent, or even a government agent. He couldn't take her. She'd kicked him around the block once when they'd sparred in the boxing ring. So she just flashed him a smile and he sighed, rolled his eyes, and pressed a button that no doubt told Tony Stark she was here.

**.**

The drive to Roanoke had been fraught with tension but relatively uneventful. No one was looking for them…yet.

Swapping out the mini-van for a periwinkle SUV, they'd made it to Philly, where they'd received a black jeep to take to Manhattan—still a wreck after the attack a couple of years ago by aliens or whatever the Avengers had gone up against, but at least it was drivable now.

Now came the hard part.

In the jeep in a metal trunk in the backseat had been four things that had added a fresh layer of terror to the night's adventure: a Smartphone with an Iron Man sticker on the back of it; a Stark Industries issued portable DVD cam-and-recorder; a new black tablet (the first and second tablets had been disposed of at the appropriate drop-off points); and a custom-made, child-sized Kevlar vest. A silver flashdrive dangled from the new set of keys. The moment the tablet screen came to life, the text had ordered, _Parking garage, Stark Industries Headquarters, NY._

And here they were. There had to be some kind of tracker or something in the tablet because as soon as the jeep parked in the multi-story garage, the screen flickered on again and new words appeared.

_Record the message to flashdrive  
Give the vest, flashdrive, and phone to Will  
Put him in the elevator  
Go to safe-house SC-B-554  
Wait for instructions_

Shaking hands obeyed. If the voice in the recording trembled a little, the sleepy children in the back of the jeep didn't notice. Then the jeep backed out of the parking space and drove in search of the elevator.

William Gardner, age five years and seven months, was Iron Man's biggest fan. Maybe that was why he'd been chosen to infiltrate Stark Industries—with a little help, of course. With a hug that squeezed him breathless and a dozen kisses all over his face, he was sent into the elevator. At nine-thirty in the morning, there weren't many people around. He was alone in the elevator.

The jeep didn't drive away until the doors dinged shut.

Feeling very small in his custom Kevlar vest, the flashdrive on a leather cord around his neck and the Iron Man Smartphone clutched in his trembling hand, Will glanced at the phone's screen as tears pricked his eyes.

_Press the 1 button_

Will pressed it. With a lurch that made his tummy jump, the elevator made its descent.

**.**

Tony, Pepper, and Steve were waiting when Natasha strolled into a marbled room furnished in white fiberglass and shiny chrome. She winked at Pepper, who smiled and rose to her feet, arms outstretched as if to hug her.

"Agent Romanoff!" They hugged. If Natasha had been in any business but espionage, she would've considered Pepper Potts a friend. "How are you? Does SHIELD need Tony for something?"

Tony scoffed. "That's not happening. Besides, I heard SHIELD fell apart faster than a shoddy Jenga tower."

"And you sound so disappointed, Mr. Stark," Natasha said, sinking into a chair near the massive chrome desk that Steve pulled out for her. She set the manila envelope on her lap and folded her ankles, tucking them slightly beneath the chair. A prim and proper pose to go with her current disguise. A quick scan of the room showed no SHIELD bugs. JARVIS, Tony's AI butler, must've found the ones from the last plant.

"My heart shattered into a million pieces when I heard," Tony said dryly. "You know what I thought? I thought to myself, 'If Fury's retired, that means I can't bug the crap out of him with my antics. What am I supposed to do with my afternoons?' So, the lovely Agent Romanoff. What are you doing here darkening my nice, shiny new doorway? You can't have Maria back, I like her."

Natasha leaned back in her chair and allowed herself a smile. "You know, I heard Agent Hill was working for you now."

"Former," Tony said. "_Former_ Agent Hill. She's mine now. Part of my security team. How do you say 'I don't share my toys' in Latin?"

"Aw, you remembered I speak Latin."

He shrugged. "It's hard to forget a pretty girl who turned out to be working for the angry, one-eyed sourpatch kid."

The smile got slightly bigger. "So hostile, Mr. Stark. But I'm not here for you. I'm here for him." She nodded to Steve. Sandy blond brows rose and he eyed her with obvious surprise and no little wariness. The wariness stung a bit, but she put it aside. No doubt he thought she'd come to ask a favor on Director Fury's behalf. "I have some information for him."

Steve frowned and sat up a little straighter. Brows furrowing, he said, "You found something on Bucky."

She handed him the manila envelope, smiling a little wistfully when he tore it open and rifled through the series of photos. He looked so hopeful, like a kid opening the unexpected gift at Christmas. As the captain studied them, the SHIELD agent—forget this "former" stuff, SHIELD wasn't going to fall that fast or that easy—started filling him in.

"I managed to trace him as far as Roanoke, Virginia eleven months ago. Then the trail went cold. He went completely off the grid. I thought HYDRA might've gotten their hands on him, put him back in cold storage, but when he resurfaced four days ago, he wasn't keeping to his usual habits and there have been no unclaimed assassinations since some friends of mine spotted him. They haven't seen him in almost twenty-four hours, but I'm not certain that means he's gone back to ground."

Tony leaned over to get a look at the pictures Steve spread across his desk. "Roanoke again," he muttered. "I recognize that intersection, we've got an R&D lab near there. Philadelphia, City of Brotherly Love. That looks like someplace in Alaska or Canada, that's part of the boreal forest. And is that the parking garage for this building?"

Natasha offered him a casual half-shrug. "Looks like it."

The super-genius scowled. "JARVIS, is there a reason security didn't pick up on a breach on…What's the time stamp on this photo?" Glancing at the numbers, he growled, "This was _yesterday_, for crying out loud! You know, if I'm going to just douse my money with gasoline and set it on fire, I like to know about it first; what do I pay my security team for again?" He focused on Natasha. "On second thought, maybe I'll give Maria back."

"Don't blame her, Stark. The Winter Soldier is a ghost. He's even gotten the best of me once or twice. The only reason my friends managed to take these photos is because a friend of a friend programmed an algorithm looking specifically for the Winter Soldier's face. And before you ask, yes, he managed to hack security feeds for most of the major cities in New England."

"I want his number," Tony said. "I need to scoop him up before Fury or some other government bureaucracy puts him through one of their brainwashing camps and turns him into an evil genius bent on world domination."

"Not going to happen, Mr. Stark. At least let the kid finish school first. Besides, Mr. Forge doesn't work for the government and probably never will. But that's not important. What are important are these photos. The thing I'm trying to figure out is—"

"Is why he's here at all," Steve interjected softly, staring at the glossy 8"x12" images. "What's Bucky up to? None of these places have any real strategic value and you said he hasn't assassinated or even hurt anyone. But look at him." Steve pointed to the dark but nondescript clothes, the low-brimmed hats, the dark scarves that weren't at all out of place in the middle of March in New England. "He's on a job."

Tasha nodded. "Yes, he is. The question is what kind of job? And for whom?"

There was a beep, a crackle of static from the intercom built into Tony's desk, and a hum as the lights momentarily dimmed before brightening again. Tony frowned at the intercom, Pepper frowned at the lights, and Steve and Natasha eyed the door. Sudden tension prickled along the Black Widow's spine and across her shoulders as she realized that the distant babble of Happy's television show had suddenly gone silent.

She shifted her weight forward just a touch and pressed a hand against her back as if to pop her spine. The outline of her gun was a soft mound under her blazer. She noticed Steve reaching for his shield, which sat on the floor propped against the wall. Pepper reached for her defensive spray and Taser, which—Natasha noted with approval—she kept on a chain attached to the purse near her feet.

A cultured, slightly tinny British voice came through the intercom. "Sir, there's been a security breach."

Natasha pulled out her gun. Pepper grabbed her Taser. Steve picked up his shield.

"What sort of security breach?" Tony asked softly, rapidly pressing buttons on a pad near his computer. "HYDRA? Random crackpot goons? Rival companies who think playing copycat will make them more friends on the playground?"

There was a moment of silence, then JARVIS replied, "It's a little boy, sir."

A longer stretch of silence. Then, "Come again?"

"It's a little boy. Perhaps five or six years old. He appears to be unarmed—"

"Is he a killer robot?"

Natasha shot Tony a look, but he seemed to actually be serious. The disembodied British voice replied, "I doubt it, sir. As I was saying, he appears unarmed, though he _is_ holding a cellular phone and a flashdrive. He's wearing a bulletproof vest."

"Could be a bomb," Natasha said, rising to her feet. Steve shot her a look like he thought she was crazy. One day she'd have to tell him about some of the child assassins she'd met in Russia back in the old days. But for now that would have to wait.

JARVIS said, "I don't think so, Agent Romanoff. I've scanned both phone and flashdrive. They're nothing out of the ordinary except the phone appears to have a microchip inside to render it untraceable. I'm having difficulty following the path of origin to whoever was sending the child instructions."

Tony stood up. "It's a kid and someone's sending him instructions via phone?"

"Yes, sir. The boy appears to be in some distress."

The intercom on the chrome desk beeped. Tony pressed the button. "Yeah?"

"Boss," Happy Hogan said, and to Natasha's ears he sounded more than a little freaked out. "There's a kid out here who says he has to see Captain Rogers like, ASAP. I don't know how he got past security—"

"Send him in," Tony muttered. To Natasha he added, "You think you're gonna need a gun against a five-year-old? Seriously?"

One slim, auburn brow lifted in an elegant arch. "I was shot by a five-year-old once." She waited in the ensuing silence for someone to say something or for the door to open. She wasn't sure what they might say or ask, so she was more than a little relieved when the door opened and a little boy with skin the color of milky coffee and curly black hair done up in a million little braids walked in.

His jeans and Iron Man t-shirt looked liked they'd been slept in, and the Kevlar vest and the kid's hair were both covered in dust. The knees and seat of his jeans were filthy. Tears had cut tracks in the grime on his cheeks. He held out the phone and flashdrive with shaking hands. Made a little whimpering sound as more tears spilled down his cheeks.

"Are you St-St-Steve?" The boy asked, daring to take a small step into the room. Steve nodded, got up. "I'm s'posed to give you these," the kid added as Steve knelt in front of him. He took the flashdrive and phone. Glanced at the screen. Natasha caught a glimpse of words.

_His name is Will. Keep him safe._

Then the screen went dark.

Tony frowned, eyeing the flashdrive Steve handed to him. After a moment's hesitation he popped it into a USB port with a tersely muttered, "JARVIS, scan it."

"Scanning, sir."

While JARVIS worked, Steve put a hand on the kid's shoulder. "How did you get in here?"

Will sniffled and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. "Jack told me how. He said I had to give you a message."

"Who's Jack?" Steve asked gently.

"My friend," the boy said. "He's gonna help us. He promised."

Trying to keep her voice as gentle and cajoling as Steve—she didn't know much about dealing with unhappy children in a situation like this—Natasha interjected, "Help you do what?"

"One file detected, sir," JARVIS said before Will could say anything. "Encrypted MP4 file, no viruses found. Decrypting now. The video should be ready in three…two…one…"

Tony swept his fingers across his desk when lines of blue light appeared on the silvery surface. A holographic projection of a massive computer screen flashed from the desktop to the white wall on one side of the room. A touch of a button dimmed the lights to make the projection easier to see. Onscreen in the middle of a video-player window was a woman's face. Messy, dark auburn hair framed a tired-looking face. Exhaustion bruises shadowed under honey-gold eyes framed by a pair of so-called hipster glasses. Behind her, they could see the interior of a car and three shadowy lumps in the backseat. One of them was Will. One was a little girl in a car-seat who could've been his sister. The third was an Asian girl a few years older than Will, asleep and cuddling a backpack with a bug-eyed snowman on it.

Will sniffled again. "That's my mom and my sisters."

The adults exchanged a glance before Tony pressed _PLAY_.

_"Captain Rogers_," the woman in the video said. _"I don't have a lot of time. My name is Sally Gardner. Please take care of my son. His name is William. A mutual friend of ours, Jack—he said you call him 'Bucky'—told me to send Will to you with this message. Jack said if we ever needed help we could come to you, but he wasn't sure how easy it would be to contact you. We need help, Captain Rogers. This group, HYDRA…Jack says you've dealt with them before. They…_" Tears welled up in the woman's tired eyes and spilled down her pale cheeks. _"They're after my family. Jack said they were recruiting mutants, kidnapping us. They t—_"

She cut off abruptly, glancing over her shoulder, eyes wide. Natasha saw she was actually holding her breath, as if that might help hide her from HYDRA and whoever else might be after her. Turn back to the camera, she said quickly, _"We have to leave. They could be here any second. Jack said to tell you that the rendezvous is at the tipping point. He said you'd know what that meant. He needs your help. And he said to tell you that we'll be waiting at the beginning of the line._" Swallowing, the woman added, _"Please, Captain Rogers. Please help us. Jack said we could trust you. Please."_

The video ended and Natasha, Tony, and Pepper stared at Steve, who'd been gaping at the screen ever since this woman—Sally Whoever—had uttered the name "Bucky." William had latched onto the super-soldier's arm and had yet to let go. Steve swallowed. Squeezed his eyes shut tight once before opening them again. Then he got to his feet.

"The tipping point?" Natasha asked softly. "Do you know where that is?"

Steve nodded. "Yeah. It's where the Winter Soldier saved my life." He shook his head. "But what could he possibly need my help with? Protecting that woman? He could get her off the grid faster than I could."

Will tugged on Steve's hand. "He's gotta get Jamie. The bad guys took him away."

Natasha settled her forearms on her knees as she leaned forward. Still pretending to be as gentle and child-savvy as Steve seemed to be, she asked, "Who's Jamie?"

"My brother."

**.**

He staggered once before slipping soundlessly into the air duct, a shadow along the wall. The vent made zero sound as he pulled it back into place behind him. A brief scan of the rim of the duct showed him no blood marked his passage. Good. He could take an hour, remove the bullet lodged in his belly, and maybe catch a few minutes of sleep before heading out of the compound. He wouldn't make it on his own, so he needed to bring back reinforcements.

Even if the thought lodged like a bone in his throat.

Crawling along the wall on one elbow while he plastered a hand to his stomach, he maneuvered several feet into the duct, turning a few corners, before he knew he'd be relatively safe from detection. Propping himself up and bracing his boots against the opposite wall of the ventilation shaft, he leaned back against the wall and opened his jacket to better examine the wound.

The bleeding had almost completely stopped, thanks to the exacerbated coagulating factor in his blood. Rolling up the black t-shirt sticky with blood, he studied the bullet hole through the single, uncracked lens of his night-vision goggles. He didn't have much in the way of supplies, but he always carried a few necessities. Removing the slug took about ten minutes of teeth-clenching, sweat-drenched pain like a bad dream of fire and acid. When it was over he folded a thick pad of gauze and taped it in place over the wound. If he made it out of here and had some time, he'd patch it up properly instead of giving it a simple field-dressing.

If he made it out…No, not if. When. He would rendezvous with Rogers, fulfill the mission, and get back to Whistle-Stop, and then…Well, and then he had some choices to make. He'd already made a big one: calling in Captain Rogers; the guy who claimed to be his best friend since childhood; the guy he vaguely remembered in a fuzzy, dreamy sort of way. He'd made the choice to trust Rogers with this mission. Once it was over, he had to decide whether he could trust himself with the next step regarding the target and the mission handler.

That's how he had to think of all this—targets and missions and handlers. Anything else would rip into him like icy claws, slicing through the thin veneer of indifference he'd used so far to even accomplish this much. He wasn't James Buchanan Barnes right now, whoever that was; he had no memory of that man. He wasn't Rogers' friend Bucky. He wasn't even Jack, a new name for a new life.

Right now he was the Winter Soldier and he had a mission.

He had to get Jamie back.

For a moment a cold slither of fear snaked down his spine. He clenched his teeth and shoved it away. He was going to get Jamie back. He was going to bring the boy home again. No one was going to stop him. Especially not HYDRA.

A soft vibration from his untraceable cell phone buzzed against his chest. He bit back a sigh and pulled the phone out of his pocket. A message from the enemy flashed on the screen.

_You are running out of time, Winter Soldier.  
In 72 hours, your target will be dead.  
Give yourself up and we might make a deal._

He knew better. HYDRA didn't make deals. He ought to have known—he'd worked for them long enough. Sliding the phone back into his pocket, he let his head fall back against the shaft wall. He closed his eyes. Steadied his breathing. Pushed down the pulsing burn in his abdomen. He'd take ten minutes to doze, a trick he'd picked up…somewhere. He couldn't remember. It didn't matter.

Just before sleep claimed him, he thought he smelled warm chocolate chip cookies. His lips twitched for a split-second in a flickering ghost of a smile.

_Don't worry_, he thought tiredly at the mutant he hoped was at this very moment driving to a safe-house in Ohio. In his mind, he saw the quiet streets of Whistle-Stop, the cheerful storefront of the Van Schweetz bakery. Will's pit-bull lounging outside by the door, hoping for a customer to drop some crumbs. Jamie's bike propped against the wall. Flowers in the store's window-boxes. He could almost smell the freesias. _Don't worry, Sally. I'll bring him back._

And he was asleep, and in seconds was dreaming of the past.


	2. Winter in the Garden

_**Author's Note**__: And here I come to update today...and I look fabulous! So let me know what you guys think of this chapter, okay? Huggles to everyone who's returned for a second chapter, yay! Reviews are love (and they help me figure out where this is going)._

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**Chapter Two**

**Winter in the Garden**

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_11 months ago…_

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Needles of ice drove into his skin, ripping the breath from his body. Cold slammed into him like a slab of concrete. White stars exploded across his eyes, gutted and bleeding into his skull. He flailed at the wall of water pushing him down deep and deeper into the silty blackness sucking the heat from his body. Bubbles spewed out of his mouth, precious air slipping away as he clawed at the dark, trying to climb through…but the cold whispered in his mind, sickening seduction to sleep. The water burned his eyes, he wanted so much to close them, but the darkness…if he closed his eyes, it would take him.

Frost crept across his lashes, snatching the choice away, freezing his eyelids, sealing them shut. He vaguely felt his swiftly-numbing hands slam against a thick slab of ice. No. No, not ice. Glass. He beat against the glacial sheet of glass slowly going misty with the cold. He opened his mouth to scream but more bubbles erupted from his lips, billowing in the black water.

Not bubbles. Steam. The silver vapor of his breath, poisonous as burning mercury, burning his throat and fogging the glass faster, obscuring the chubby-faced little imp with the beatific smile and the beady blue eyes behind tiny, wireless spectacles that he _knew_ was there even though he couldn't see.

Not water flooding his lungs but ice crystals in the dry and frigid air, cutting his throat. He tasted copper and salt, hot blood, freezing on his tongue, on his lips. His fingernails scraped against the fresh, thin layer of ice on the opaque glass. Fire ripped across the top of his middle finger and steam wafted up as blood spilled from the torn fingernail. Metal scraped the ice and glass, a harsh skree piercing his ears.

_Steve_, the name pounding like a heartbeat in the back of his skull, _Steve, help me! Steve, please! Don't let them do this to me! Don't let them do this! Steve! Steve!_ A child screaming in the dark, a man crying silently in the night, the plea went on and on as fire exploded across the surface of his left arm, scouring away the flesh, peeling back muscle and tendon and sinew to reveal the bone, charring down to the marrow. His screams slammed against his teeth, locked in his mouth and cramming into his throat as the ice flooded him, silenced him, suffocated him.

Buried him.

A tear squeezed between the frosted lashes, a single splash of warmth that quickly froze to the chilled skin at the left temple. Pale, blue-tinged lips shaped a name, a word without meaning, an echo of a child's dream. A slender thread to anchor the truth of himself in his own mind.

_Steve…_

A blade of ice cut that thread to ribbons and left him plunging straight down into the abyss echoing with the ghosts of his screams.

**.**

He bolted awake to the discordant screech of a car alarm. The pearl-gray ambiance of false down dared to poke its fingers through the motel room window, past the moth-eaten curtains and humidity-swollen windowpane. Shadows painted the room like a nightmare. The abyss whispered from the deepest parts of the dark.

He tasted copper. Licked his lower lip and realized he'd bitten it his sleep. A thin crust of blood marred the rough stubble he hadn't bothered to shave off. Pushing at the thick locks of bed-tousled hair with his metal hand, he set down the Magnum he hadn't even realized he'd snatched from under his pillow on the nightstand. Blood-red alarm clock numbers limned the dark-painted steel.

Three weeks. He hadn't returned to his handlers in three weeks. Three weeks since he'd nearly died trying to complete the assignment—kill Captain America. Three weeks since he'd been saved by the man he'd been sent to kill. A man who recognized him. A man who shared his long, blurred history.

A man he didn't even remember except in the depths of the nightmares that left sweat dripping down his spine and plastering his hair to his neck, that left blood in his mouth. Nightmares that woke him with a gun cold in his hand and a name he couldn't remember on his lips.

The air-conditioner, he realized with a start. It had come on in the night. The room was a freezer. Throwing back the itchy bedclothes, he swung his bare feet to the floor. Marched to the AC unit and switched it off. Then he moved into the tiny bathroom, filled one of those cheap plastic cups with water as hot as he could stand from the sink, and downed it in gulps that seared his throat. Heat flooded his chest and belly, pushing back memories of ice and darkness.

He didn't mind the darkness so much unless the cold came with it. Then his blood chilled in his veins, ran sluggish as a corpse's, and his heart tried to jackhammer its way out of his chest. But he was all right now. He was fine. He had a task to complete, a goal. Remembering that helped him focus.

Goal number one: find out the truth—all of it—about his connection to Captain America.

Goal number two: if it was possible, get back the memories he hadn't even realized were missing.

Goal number three: don't get killed by either HYDRA or SHIELD.

Supposedly SHIELD had been disbanded in their efforts to take down HYDRA, but he didn't believe it for a second. HYDRA had slipped its tentacles into so many government organizations like SHIELD across the globe, there was no way to eradicate them completely. They were like roaches—impossible to exterminate. Fitting that despite their name, their symbol was a skeletal octopus. And SHIELD wasn't going anywhere either. Not if agents like Nick Fury and Natasha Romanoff had anything to say about it.

The sweat had chilled and gelled to his skin, leaving him sticky, uncomfortable in the sweats and black t-shirt he'd slept in. He hit the hot water in the shower, listening to the death-rattle of decrepit pipes echoing in the walls. Before stripping out of his clothes he retrieved the Magnum and set it on the bathroom counter—just in case.

After his shower, he'd get out of here. Move on. There was a little coastal town about twenty miles down the freeway. He wasn't going to risk hitchhiking, in case HYDRA or SHIELD were closer than even he guessed, but he could hoof it. He'd be there by noon at the latest.

Plan laid out, he filled the cup with hot water one more time and downed it, swallowing back a tumble of words that always slithered into his mouth after the nightmares that had dogged him the last three weeks. Words he refused to speak aloud.

_Who am I?_ and _What's my name?_ and _When was I born?_ and even _How old am I?_

The words writhed in his throat until bile burned them away. Shaking his head, he stepped into the shower and shoved his head under the sizzling spray, trying to vaporize the coldness still crystallizing inside him.

**.**

The late March sun fumbled its weak way through a bank of gray clouds that made cheap promises of an afternoon downpour. He'd been following the highway at a distance, prowling along in ditches and among the trees flanking the interstates running through Virginia. Normally he wouldn't head there from DC if he was trying to hide, but he knew HYDRA. They'd expect him to either fall completely off the grid and run to Cancun or Tahiti, or they'd expect him to stick to DC like a bloodthirsty tick, since that was where _he_ still was. Captain America.

Instead he'd done the smart thing: stayed close, but not too close. Once HYDRA started thinking he really _was_ in Tahiti, he'd go back to DC. But in the meantime, he needed to stay nearby. Keep his finger on the pulse of everything; keep immersed in the blood-thrum of government agencies and conspiracies.

But he couldn't stand the big cities with their cold, gleaming spires and human cattle herding in droves through the subways and streets. Not after that moment over the Potomac. For just a second, dragging the unconscious Captain America out of the murky water, he'd felt _right_. As if he was doing something he was meant to do. He'd never felt that innate rightness in the executions he'd undertaken for HYDRA.

He wanted to recapture that a little, which was why he approached the small town on the Virginia coast instead of hiding out in a major city like Richmond. For the first time since he could remember, he realized he wanted to be surrounded by basic quietude, trees, and the sound of rushing water. Just for a while. So slipping like a wolf through the kudzu and tall grass, he dodged around the sign that read _Welcome to Whistle-Stop! Population: 3998._

_Make that 3999_, he thought as he moved out of the cover of the pine and oak trees. Stepping onto the narrow, two-lane road—a white-washed sign quaintly proclaimed the thoroughfare as Main Street—should've made him feel like an insect under a microscope, but there weren't too many people outside just then. Those that were took a quick glance and looked away, put off by the cap pulled low over his face and the dusty leather jacket, the boots and the black duffel slung over his shoulder. They didn't even know about the weapons wrapped in black canvas and stowed in his duffel, or about the Bowie knife and the switchblade shoved into the specialty sheaths in his boots. People in this town had good instincts. They might remember a drifter coming through, but they wouldn't have dared look close enough to be able to describe him if SHIELD or HYDRA agents ever came calling.

Still, better to get off the main street. He wanted to see if the place had a motel—too small for a hotel—or maybe a house for rent. If the landlord accepted cash, he'd be set for a few days until he decided to move on. His general plan was to circle DC by skirting through the surrounding states until it was safe to go back.

He'd have to be stupid to stay in one place for more than a week at most, though. Of course, the people following him knew he knew that, so if they just so happened to find him wherever he was, he could make the trail look days old, and they'd move off in one direction following his shadow while he took off the other way and escaped.

Honestly, they'd trained him too well. As long as this place had internet and a nearby cell tower, he was a ghost.

Dodging down an alley between a local barbershop called Snips and a small, used bookstore that seemed to double as a computer repair shop and sandwich place with the bizarre name of Jefferson's, he found a minor street running parallel to Main called Grace Ave. He followed that for a few blocks until he stopped in front of the police station. He would've kept walking, but fluttering in the cool, damp breeze coming off the ocean roaring in the background was a poster duct-taped to an iron lamppost. He only noticed it because the duct-tape had a brick pattern and the paper was fluorescent yellow.

_For Rent  
Guest house on private property  
One bedroom, one bath  
Cable and internet included  
No smokers or heavy drinkers  
Must love kids and dogs  
Home-cooked meals available  
Rent negotiable  
Cash or money order only_

There was an address listed with a little map, and a date—three days ago. Unless someone had snatched the place up already, it actually suited him fine. He could avoid the kids and the…dog. He didn't smoke or drink, he needed internet, and paying in cash was perfect. Pulling the flyer off the lamppost, he folded it in quarters and stuck it in his pocket before heading for the address.

**.**

James Gardner was seven years old. His mother usually called him Jamie, unless kids at school made fun of him for being adopted or because his mom was a mutant or because of his twin sister Rebecca. Then his mom called him Ronin because it made him feel cool. And if he was in trouble she always called him "James Stephen Gardner" in her Mom Voice, which was kind of scary.

He liked to tell grownups that being Japanese was cool because that meant he could be a samurai when he grew up. He didn't know why that always made them laugh. He liked school but didn't like recess because kids would push his sister on the playground or call her names and then he and his brother Will ended up getting into fights and the principal always called their mom. Then she'd have to come down to the school and they'd have to explain that some of the big kids from the older grades had called Becky "retard," which was a really bad word, and they'd had to do something. Then their mom usually yelled at the principal.

Jamie didn't like to fight, but he watched a lot of anime and he knew that sometimes you had to fight even if you didn't want to. Even if it was scary. Even if the bad guy was bigger than you. Which is why even though he felt like any second he was going to pee his pants, he kicked Miguel Quintana in knee as hard as he could.

The eighth-grader spun around and punched Jamie in the face. Jamie strangled on a yelp of pain as the big knuckles connected with his eye socket. Black spots danced across his eyes and he staggered back into the waiting arms of Miguel's friend Zack. Four-year-old Will, who was almost ready to graduate from Pre-K to kindergarten, let out a Tarzan yell and jumped on Miguel. Miguel grunted, rolled his eyes, and then slammed his back against one of the metal posts holding up part of the playground equipment. Will let out a harsh wheeze and dropped to the sand like a rock. Miguel nudged him with the steel toe of his combat boot as the four-year-old started to cry.

"No!" A girl's voice. Jamie started squirming hard because if Becky got upset, she'd start screaming and getting scared and Miguel would do all kinds of horrible things to her. When Miguel turned around to tell Jamie to quit squirming around, Jamie lashed out and kicked him in the thigh. Miguel grunted again. Narrowed his eyes. Then he punched the seven-year-old in the pit of the stomach. Zack dropped him when he started heaving. Distantly, Jamie heard Becky shriek, "_No!_"

_Oh, no_, Jamie thought, eyes widening as Becky picked up her lunchbox and swung it at Miguel. _No, Becky, no!_ He tried to get to his feet again, but his knees knocked together and he fell back down. Miguel grabbed Becky by her one long braid.

"Hey, the little freak's trying to help her dork brothers," Miguel said, smiling. Becky hit him with her lunchbox again and he yanked on her hair. She screamed and started crying. "Awww, poor little crybaby. Looks like somebody needs a timeout."

"Leave her alone!" Jamie yelled, finally dragging himself to his feet using the jungle gym bars. His stomach hurt and his head felt funny. He was pretty sure his whole face was purple but it didn't matter. "Leave Becky alone!"

Miguel just rolled his eyes. "Shut up, twerp." Before Jamie could do anything but take a few steps, Miguel had thrown his sister into the open metal shed where the town playground monitors—high school kids who volunteered so they had something nice to tell colleges about—kept the extra special playground equipment like footballs and basketballs and tennis rackets, and he shut the door. Holding it closed, he put all his weight on it.

Becky started screaming, pounding on the metal door with her fists. Miguel pounded right back. Jamie could practically feel his sister's heart pounding, feel how scared she was. He lunged for Miguel but Zack grabbed him. "Not so fast, Mr. Samurai!"

"Becky!" Jamie yelled, kicking and flailing. Will was still crying hysterically from the sandbox. "Becky! _Becky!_"

"Hey."

The voice wasn't loud. It didn't thunder across the playground. But somehow it cut through the sound of Will sobbing and Jamie yelling his sister's name, Miguel laughing and Zack sniggering. Becky continued hammering on the door to the shed and shrieking, but everyone else went quiet as a grownup in a baseball cap and a leather jacket stopped a dozen paces away on the sidewalk.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Jamie didn't know it, but at that moment Miguel made a _big_ mistake. Sneering at the grownup, he said, "What's it to you?"

**.**

He stared at the kids, wondering just what exactly he thought he was doing. This was _not_ his business. Not in the slightest. He had no reason to care what these punks were doing to each other.

But a wisp of memory in a nightmare flitted through his mind. The name _Becky_—but hadn't it actually been _Bucky?_—A boy, scrawny as a skeleton, gasping hard for breath. Almost like someone was trying to strangle him. Blood shone red as paint on his pale lips from a busted mouth and a bleeding nose. His eye was already swelling, black bruises circling a sky-blue iris as hard as steel. That boy was in trouble. That boy needed help. It was _his_ job to help him.

_Becky…_

_Bucky! Bucky!_

That sharp fragment of buried memory lodged at the base of his skull, sending dull pain shooting through his neck and into his head. He'd take care of the little kids and the punks, then head out to this cottage place and see if it was still up for rent.

"What's it to you?"

The thudding pain in his skull sharpened, shards of glass prodding the raw nerves in his brain as the memory flooded each phantom prick with fire. He narrowed his eyes at the tall thirteen-year-old with an attitude problem and a death wish. He imagined what he wanted to say just so he wouldn't have to deal with the kid for the next twenty minutes.

_Look, you've got two choices. You either turn around and walk away, or I shoot you and your buddy in the head and you die._ But he wasn't a murderer. A killer, yes, but he'd never killed children. He'd executed enemies of HYDRA, politicians and scientists working for SHIELD, soldiers and military geniuses. Enemies of his cause.

His former cause.

So just because he might _want_ to shoot the kid didn't mean he would. Or that he would seriously think about it for more than five seconds. Instead he focused on the little tin-roofed shed that shook with the impact of whoever was beating it half to death from the inside. He jerked his chin at the rattling door. He could hear someone—a little girl from the sound of it, unless someone was torturing a cat in there—sobbing so hard she was practically screaming.

"Let go of the door."

Even though he hadn't even so much as looked at the other kid, he knew the instant the other kid dropped the boy who'd been flailing and screaming while trying to get to the kid in the shed. The little boy started for the idiot holding the door closed but he stopped a couple feet away, hands clenched at his sides.

"You let her out," the kid snarled, hunching his shoulders and lowering his head like a bull about to charge. "Or I'll punch you in the nuts and _this_ time, I won't miss."

The other kid—younger, maybe four or five—who'd been weeping in the sand gave a little gasp. "Jamie! You's not s'posed to say that!"

Well, the kid was brave. Had to give him that. Ignoring the adolescent threats, focusing on the jailer, the man known as the Winter Soldier let himself relish the way the thirteen-year-old moron's eyes widened and he shrank back as a fully grown adult stranger approached, murder in his eyes. It took four steps before the kid broke and ran, practically tripping over himself and kicking up a dust cloud as he booked it down the street. His idiot friend raced after him, calling for the other kid to wait.

The door flew open on the next bang and a little Japanese girl stumbled out, scraping her knees when she hit the ground. Then she just sat on the gravel, hands covering her face, screaming as the boy—obviously her brother—rushed over and squatted down next to her. The other kid, whose caramel-colored cheeks were streaked with dirt and tears, hurried over too, scrubbing his face. They were careful not to touch her. The Japanese boy looked strangely grown up as he held up his hands, palm-out, and started smoothing them across the air.

"It's okay, Becky," he cried over the girl's hiccupping shrieks. "They're gone. You're okay. It's okay. You're in your box. Nobody's gonna do anything bad. It's okay. You're in your box. It's safe. It's okay. It's safe in the box."

Those hand motions were strangely hypnotic; the girl seemed to feel that way, too, because her sobs died away as her brother continued moving his hands in the same patterns through the air over and over again. It was odd. The kid never looked his sister in the eye. Neither did the younger boy. In fact, the younger one barely looked at her at all. He just sat motionless on the gravel next to her, with maybe six inches of space between them, watching the boy he'd called Jamie.

When Becky was only sniffling, Jamie started humming. He kept moving his hands and she started watching them more closely. Eventually he stopped and sat down on the gravel. Tilting his head to the side, he glanced sidelong at his sister and smiled. She dropped her gaze to the gravel, but her lips twitched into a small smile.

_What was all that?_ Watching the kids, there hadn't been a moment when Jamie seemed at a loss as to what to do. But what was wrong with his sister?

But the assassin didn't ask aloud. He just called, "You three all right?"

Jamie helped Becky to her feet and nodded. "Yeah. She just got scared. She's scared of the dark and there are spiders in there." He pointed over his shoulder at the open shed. "She doesn't scream all the time. Just about Miguel. He scares her."

"He's mean t'her 'cause she's got HFA," the younger boy said. "That means she's got artism."

"Autism," Jamie corrected. "But she's not weird," he added defensively. "It's only baby-autism. She just gets confused or scared sometimes. And she doesn't like looking at people."

"An' when she's scared, don' touch her," the younger boy added, shaking his head solemnly.

"I'm Jamie. This is Becky." Becky shot a lightning-swift glance somewhere around the vicinity of the assassin's knees. "And this is our little brother Will. He's four. So…so thanks for saving us. 'Cause they were gonna cream us, I bet. "

Suddenly uncomfortable—this whole thing felt like a surreal dream—he shrugged and said, "I don't like bullies." Then he frowned as an echo of another voice, at once as familiar as his own but as strange as the memories shuddering through him at random intervals like mindquakes, murmured the words in his brain.

Movement out of the corner of his eye distracted him. He fought against flexing his metal fingers when he noticed—and it astonished him that they could really be _that_ stupid—the two teenagers who'd been tormenting the three little kids were actually waiting for him to leave so they could start up again. Really? He was standing _right here_. Did they think he couldn't see them? Apparently he had the word _stupid_ tattooed on his forehead. Being underestimated, even by a kid, pissed him off.

But now was not the time or the place to lose his temper over some dumb kids, so he focused on Jamie. "Where do you live?"

Jamie hesitated. "Um…we're not supposed to tell strangers that." The hesitation disappeared when the stranger in question surreptitiously pointed toward the waiting bullies. "Oh. Three-twenty-seven Arandelle Street. Oh, cool! That's my mom's poster," Jamie added when the ex-HYDRA soldier unfolded the flyer he'd stuffed in his pocket to check the address. "Awesome! Are you gonna live behind our house?"

_Must love kids and dogs. Huh_, he thought, eyeing the kids the poster no doubt referred to. Two little boys and a girl with high-functioning autism. Well, at least they wouldn't bother him, if the girl was as afraid of everything as she seemed to be. This…wasn't a real problem. And he was only staying for a few days.

"We can show you how to get there," Jamie said. "Come on!"

Absently wondering if his nightmares had turned into an incredibly bizarre dream—or maybe he'd been drugged and didn't know it? Except he felt perfectly alert—he followed the three kids headed for the cottage that would soon become his temporary secret lair.

**.**

There was no chance HYDRA or SHIELD would look for him here.

He'd been considering that maybe this wasn't the best idea after all—kids could be a liability, and interfering on their behalf like he had hadn't been smart. It would leave an impression on them and their mother, his potential new landlady. He'd been weighing the pros and cons of moving on to a different town when they'd arrived on Arandelle Street and he'd seen the Silly Pastry Garden. Actually the sign was faded, so it said something like S_Y_ PA_RY GAR_N. He just figured, based on the décor, that it was Silly Pastry Garden.

The combined bakery and home sat at the end of the street just before where cracked asphalt melted into dirt pathway and tall grass. A two-story, wooden building with flower-boxes hanging from the first-floor windows and green shutters, hunter green shingles on the roof showing dark against the white-painted wood, it practically screamed coziness and fireside rocking chairs, fresh-baked cookies and tall glasses of milk. Probably a perfect building for a bakery. The aroma of chocolate and something tangy and citrusy drifted from the front door, which had been propped open with a heavy flower pot half as tall as Jamie. Pale green shoots poked up from the dark earth inside.

"Mom's probably hot," Jamie said, glancing over his shoulder at the silent shadow following behind him. "The air-conditioner broke, and it's hot in the kitchen, so she keeps the door open when it's not dark out."

"Da fix-it guy won't come out until next month," Will chimed in, "'cause he's a jerk."

"That's a bad word," Jamie reminded his brother.

Will scowled. "That's what Mommy said 'bout him when he left, 'member?"

"Shhh," Jamie insisted, glancing back again. The Winter Soldier said nothing. A broken air-conditioner in a place as cool as Virginia in March didn't bother him. Whatever heat those commercial ovens were spitting out was nothing compared to the thick, molten air of the Sahara or Mojave Deserts or the jungles of South America. "Don't say that," Jamie added. "The car guy already got mad at you for saying it about him."

The four-year-old snapped his arms tight across his chest and sulked, glaring at the little cobblestone path leading to a trio of steps going up to the bakery door. Still silent, the assassin followed the three children up the path and the steps. A little wooden sign hung on a nail in the wall next to the doorway. The robin's egg blue sign showed an anthropomorphized white rose that beamed cheerily from where it sat on a little mushroom with cartoon eyes, eating what looked like a muffin and sipping from a cup shaped like a tiny daffodil. A speech bubble coming out of its mouth said in big, rainbow multi-font, _OPEN_.

A flicker of curiosity had him flipping the sign over to see the back. The rose was now curled up on the grass beneath a taller mushroom that had been in the background on the other side of the sign; an empty plate with some crumbs and an empty cup sat on the squat mushroom, whose eyes were closed as if it was sleeping. The rose seemed to be asleep too. Instead of the pale, spring-blue background, the sign was painted in a swirl of violet and azure, with metallic stars spelling the word _CLOSED_.

"Mommy likes fwowers," Will said, peering at the spring shoots sprouting out of the big flowerpot being used as a doorstop. "But she says cake is better."

The woman sounded like a twit. Again he briefly considered turning back, but this place was the ultimate cover. No one would think to look for him here. He wouldn't have to leave after a week. He could stay probably as long as a month, rest up, fine-tune the plans for his next few moves.

There was no one behind a wooden counter the color of rich butter-cream, but a low humming came from somewhere. He would've cautiously leaned in just enough to see around the doorframe, but Jamie barged in ahead of him and yelled, "Mom! We're home!"

"We have a peoples with us!" Will added. Becky just marched up to the half of the counter that looked more like a bar, climbed onto a barstool, and dropped her face into her arms. She didn't even take off her backpack or drop her lunchbox.

"I know," a woman's voice called.

The assassin frowned. She knew? He stepped into the bakery and felt the heat crash over him in a wave, chasing away the chilly damp from outside. His gaze darted to every potential exit or entry point. Six tall windows—three standard, three in patterned stained glass—the door they'd just come through, a set of wooden double doors that no doubt led to the kitchen. Potential weapons? Bar stools, chairs, tables, metal and plastic cutlery, stainless steel and glass bakeware, glass dishes.

This wasn't the most secure location, but unless HYDRA decided to launch a missile at the place, he knew he could get out quickly. At least the windows were tinted—probably because they faced east and the sun would've lanced right across the counter into the proprietor's eyes.

Speaking of the proprietor…

She came around the corner, a plate of cookies balanced expertly on the palm of one hand. She set the plate on the counter next to Becky without saying a word to the strange man standing in her kitchen, picked up a cookie, set that on the counter, and pushed it carefully under Becky's arm. Only then did she look at the Winter Soldier with eyes the warm color of honey melting in the sun, shielded by black-framed glasses.

"I wondered when you'd get here," she said. His brows drew sharply together and wariness prickled like icy needles along his spine. His fingers twitched once toward the knives he kept hidden in his boots. His metal hand, hidden by the sleeve of his jacket and a black glove, convulsed around the handle of his duffel bag. The word _trap_ slithered through his brain, poisonous and cold.

But the woman didn't _look_ like a SHIELD or HYDRA agent. She didn't carry herself like one. A pair of faded jeans and a white t-shirt with a ribbon that looked like it was made of multi-colored puzzle pieces didn't exactly scream government agent. The cheap jewelry draped around her neck would've been easy to grab; so would the auburn braid down her back. Maybe the blue and black enameled ribbon pin on the shoulder of her shirt was a recording device. Maybe the gold ring on her left-hand had a poisoned spike in it or had one of those practically-microscopic HYDRA computers in it. But somehow…he really doubted it, even after what she'd said.

"You were expecting me?" He kept his voice warm, friendly. People tended to remember the douche bags more often than the nice guys. He doffed his cap and offered her the barest hint of a smile to keep up the charade.

The woman shrugged and tucked a lock of auburn hair behind her ear. "I had a hunch that my renter would arrive this afternoon. I'm Sarah Gardner, but everyone calls me Sally."

He realized then that the sign on the bakery's front had said _SALLY'S PASTRY GARDEN_.

"Just a second. What," she added, dropping her gaze to Jamie, "the blue devil happened to you, Mister? Does the other kid look worse?"

Jamie heaved an aggrieved sigh. "No. It was Miguel. He locked Becky in the ball shed again!"

Color flared vibrant pink in Sally's face as she glared out the window, as if she was actually looking for Miguel. "That boy is getting on my last nerve," she muttered. "I've called his parents, I've called the principal, I've called the _cops_. I'm seriously considering disarticulating his limbs and feeding them to small, ugly, rabid dogs."

"Can we watch?" Jamie asked, helping himself to a cookie. He winced when he bit into it.

Sally's lips twitched. "That would be a big, big no. Alright, head up to the bathroom, I'll be in there in a minute after I talk to this gentleman, okay? Will, you go with him. Yes," she added as the boys opened their mouths. "You can take your petty bribes of sugar and Crisco with you. Begone. Vamoose. Curl away, my sons." When the pair had gone around the corner and clomped up what had to be stairs, Sally braced her hands on the counter and leaned back. "You scared Miguel Quintana away from my children?"

Wondering if somehow he'd managed to offend her by coming to the rescue, he shrugged. "It wasn't a fair fight, and they seemed like they needed some help. I hope I didn't overstep myself."

She shook her head and glanced at Becky, who hadn't picked her head up yet. The plate next to her was noticeably depleted, though. More than four cookies were missing. Sally danced her fingers over the countertop like pretend spider legs until they were less than an inch from Becky's arm. Two little fingers peeped out under Becky's arm and touched her mother's knuckles. Sally smiled.

"Thank you," she said to the assassin. "People warn you about small towns practically being cults sometimes, like something out of Children of the Corn, but what they don't say is that being a mutant in a big city is even worse. Believe it or not, this is the safest place for my kids." She sighed. "So, you're here about renting the guest house, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Please don't call me that," she said with a tired smile. "Makes me feel kind of old. Or like I live down south. I'm from New York, so it's a little weird. So a few questions for you before I show you the house. Do you smoke, drink, or do drugs?"

He raised an eyebrow. "You'll just believe whatever I say."

Her smile widened just a touch. "I'm a mutant. Not a very powerful one, so most of the people in Whistle-Stop don't care. But it comes with a few perks. One, I get hunches sometimes. I know things, like when the phone's about to ring and who's going to be calling, or if someone's at the door or if it's going to rain even when the sky's still clear. Nothing big. But my second little talent is, I know when people are lying. It's like a mini superpower. So yes, I'll believe you—if you tell me the truth. Smoking, drinking, drugs?"

"None of the above."

"Are you on the run from the cops?"

Too specific, he thought with an inward smile, but just said, "No."

She eyed him for a minute, then nodded. "Okay. Next question: are you a pedophile?"

His eyebrows snapped together and he stared at her. "_What?_"

One slender, fiery-gold brow winged upward in a lift that practically dripped with a thousand silent messages. "I have four children. If I don't ask, and something happens, I'd be one of those horror flick girls who are too dumb to live. So it's a valid question, considering you'll be living on my property. Oh," she added, an eerie blankness stealing over her face. "And just so we're clear, if you try to harm _any_ of my children in any way, I will kill you flatter than dead. I've done it before."

As inexplicable and really kind of laughable as it should have been—he was the Winter Soldier, HYDRA's top assassin—in that second he believed her. He had no idea what she would do, but he had no doubts at all that if he ever hurt her kids, she would do everything in her power to track him down and ghost him. She probably wouldn't succeed…but then again, he'd thought Agent Romanoff wouldn't have survived his attempt to eliminate her, and she had.

He inclined his head to Sally. He wondered who she'd killed and how she'd escaped prison.

"I'm not a pedophile. I'm not a serial killer. I have no intention of hurting you or your children. I'm not someone you need to worry about, and I'm not staying long. A month at most. I just need a place to stay for awhile."

Folding her arms across her chest, she tilted her head down and studied him from beneath her brows like a snake watching a mouse. Except he wasn't a mouse, he was another snake, a king cobra, and she was just a harmless little garter snake. Still he let her study him at her leisure before she spoke again.

"Utilities are included in the rent; since you're only staying a month, you pay by the week on Mondays. First week's rent needs to be in my hands before you move in, cash or money order. You can opt to have meals with us if you give me enough warning; we always have plenty to spare. I don't allow loud music after six-thirty—my daughter Lori's two, that's her bedtime—and I don't allow swearing around my kids. You can watch what you want in the guest house, there's cable, but if it's rated above Y-seven, make sure I can't hear it outside. You can't walk around outside in your boxers and you can't wear anything out of the house that you couldn't conceivably wear at a preschool. No women, either.

"I allow pets but you need to run them by me first because we have two dogs and five cats ranging around here. That," she added, pointing to a mostly-white cat with threads of gold, brown sugar, dove gray, and black through her fur, who sat sunning itself in the window and licking one dainty paw, "is Starbright. She's our mascot. She's kind of old so be gentle with her.

"At the moment we need someone who can fix some stuff up around here and maybe work the counter because my cashier left on her mission two days ago. I'll take whatever work you do out of your rent fees if you're interested. I don't mind you spending any time with my kids but be careful with Becky." She nodded to the Japanese girl, who'd finally sat up and was now busy pressing the tines of a fork in a line down the center of a cookie, making the tiniest indents. "Will probably told you she's high-functioning autistic?"

He nodded. "She doesn't like the dark or spiders." He shrugged. "Non-issue. I'm not going to bother your kids."

"She doesn't like being touched by strangers, either, so watch it. And she's on a strict schedule and I expect you to respect that. Becky and Jamie are adopted; you got a problem with that, I don't care. Lori's a mutant—she has vertical pupils. You got a problem with _that_, again, I don't care. Find somewhere else to live." She shoved her glasses up the bridge of her nose with one finger. "Any questions?"

The sudden bizarre urge to smile tugged at his mouth. She had _no_ idea who he was. She'd have been terrified if she ever figured it out. But because she didn't know, she had no problem being the alpha here. He could've killed her in six different ways in under a minute without giving her the chance to even squeak, but she was talking to him like an officer to a raw recruit still wet behind the ears. It reminded him of…of…something. It slipped away when he tried to grab it, though. Mentally shrugging it off, he focused on Sally.

"Can I see the house?"

And for the first time she offered him a real smile, bright as the cozy glow from the shaded amber lights hanging from the bakery ceiling. She nodded. "Sure. Just let me take care of Jamie and Will real fast. Oh, uh, sorry, I forgot to ask. What's your name?"

It took him a split-second to decide. Offering his right hand, he said, "Jack Winter."

Too late he remembered Sally's so-called "superpower." But she cocked her head and blinked owlishly at him through her glasses before making what could only be described as a _what the heck?_ face and taking his hand.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Winter."


	3. Pulled in Oh, So Slowly

_**Author's Note:**__ sorry I haven't update in forever! I've been feeling my way through Bucky's mind and whatnot so this took a little while. I've almost got him locked, I think, as of chapter 5 (which I just sent to my beta) so hopefully this will go a teensy bit faster now. Hope you guys enjoy! Let me know what you think, okay?_

.

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**Chapter Three**

**Pulled in Oh, So Slowly**

_The present…_

.

.

_Thok-thok, thok-thok_.

The harsh clacking of jackboots on cement flooring echoed through the vent, jarring the Winter Soldier from the brief catnap. His eyes took mere seconds to adjust to the darkness inside the vent. A wash of red-hot pain swept over him, reminding him of the bullet wounds in his belly and shoulder. The shoulder had been a simple through-and-through; no need for any medical attention, thanks to the serum pumping like fiery ice through his veins. It hurt, and the torn muscle was still tender, but he could deal with it. The belly wound still hurt too, but it was healing well. He'd be fine in a few days.

Jack—after all these months, it was easier to think of himself as Jack than James or Bucky—didn't _have_ a few days. He had to get Jamie. He'd promised…and HYDRA had only gone after the little boy to get to their runaway assassin anyway. Despite Sally's assurances that Whistle-Stop was protected by something beyond the scope of HYDRA and SHIELD, they'd come in the night and shattered the life he'd been trying to build for himself.

The Winter Soldier had a feeling about how that had happened. _Someone_ had betrayed them. Deliberately. Someone had looked a little too close, because the assassin had done something to tip them off to who and what he really was. Maybe for money, maybe out of fear, he didn't know. It didn't matter.

All that mattered was keeping Sally and her kids safe. If he had to blow HYDRA out of the water with a nuclear bomb, he would.

Crawling on his stomach through the vent, ignoring the burn of his wounds, he made his way to the slatted grill that would lead him back to the corridor. This vent didn't open out where he needed to go in order to leave the compound. If he was going to get out of here and make the meeting with Captain America, he had to kick it into gear. Jamie didn't have a lot of time.

HYDRA had chosen their captive well. Will had been with Jack when his brother had been kidnapped because the kid had had a lot on his mind. Growing up with a sister who was picked on as much as Becky was, with his mother being a mutant, and no dad around…it was hard on the kid. HYDRA wouldn't have taken Becky, she was too high-maintenance, and if they frightened her, no amount of threats would stop her from screaming her head off. And no HYDRA agents wanted to deal with someone as young as Lori. But Jamie was old enough and cognizant enough to understand what it meant when a man with a gun threatened to shoot your entire family if you made a sound.

The assassin swallowed something as searing as acid. Seventy-two hours. Three days. He had three days to get that kid back before whatever was wrong with him—and the HYDRA agents holding Jamie had said it had morphed into pneumonia—got bad enough to kill him.

What would that do to Sally?

It had been stupid of him, Jack thought as he caged a groan of pain that wanted to escape him behind his gritted teeth and his black flex-Kevlar mask. He scanned the area as best he could before carefully lifting the grate off the vent. The wound in his shoulder flared. It had been stupid to let down his guard, stupid to let his memories—so hazy back then, so compelling—draw him into the lives of those four kids and their mother. But there was something about the twins, Jamie and Becky, that had reminded him of something. Someone.

Nearly a full week had gone by while he'd tried to make sense of the images swimming through his head like ghosts; while he'd searched the internet for information about James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes, the man he was supposed to be. Every morning he'd jolted awake from the same nightmares of drowning in blackness and then burning to death trapped in blood-streaked ice. Every morning he'd gone outside to try to shake off the cold clinging to him in the aftermath of the dreams and found those ridiculous baskets…

The sound of approaching footsteps knocked the memory to the back of his mind. Reaching for the serrated hunting knife he kept in his boot, he crouched low against the wall, enveloping himself in the shadows of the dimly lit corridor, and waited for the hunters to find him.

.

_Eleven months ago…_

.

The assassin downed another glass of hot water as he moved toward the front hallway. The little one-story guest house—more like a cottage—had nicely situated windows…if you were someone who didn't expect your enemies to crash through the glass at any second, ready to drug you to the gills and drag you back to your ice-coffin. So he kept the windows closed, the curtains drawn. Kept the electric bill low by keeping only a single lamp on every now and then. It wasn't as if he couldn't see in the dark. Being one of HYDRA's super-soldiers had its perks sometimes.

He gravitated towards the hallway every morning because it was the warmest part of the house and he could kill the frigid bite of his nightmares. The two stained glass windows on either side of the door let light and heat in without giving away his position. And there was something vaguely soothing about the geometric patterns done in soft shades of aqua, green, and light purple. It toned down the jumpiness sizzling along his nerves whenever he woke up tasting blood or freezing half-to-death.

Paying the rent for a week on Monday had eaten up most of the cash he'd had on hand when he'd taken off. He didn't dare access any of his accounts, just in case someone had slipped a trace through the internet to try and pinpoint his location based on any withdrawals. He'd have to get a job. Luckily the landlady was hiring.

Taking the cashiering job was out of the question. Giving anyone the chance to remember him was just asking HYDRA or SHIELD to track him down. Or…or the target. The one he'd let get away. That one might be hunting for him to. He wasn't ready to take on that one again.

The question was, what _was_ he supposed to do for the landlady since she hadn't come out and given him a job yet? He'd said he was willing to do some handiwork. It kept him mostly out of the public eye—she lived on the edges of this Podunk town—but he didn't know what needed to be done. Now it was Thursday and-

_Bing-ding-bing-ding. Bing-ding-dong-ding._

Someone rang the doorbell. He hadn't even known the house _had_ a doorbell; there wasn't a button for it. Just a generic brass knocker. The short melody echoed through the house as he glanced through the peephole.

Cue the landlady, he thought, and opened the door. Sally held a familiar-looking basket, all glossy white wicker. She carried it by the handle, which was hooked over three fingers. She lifted it and nudged it toward him.

"Breakfast. I had a hunch the food would be getting boring by now."

She'd been kind enough to stock the kitchen with fresh groceries—nothing much, just a loaf of bread, some lunchmeat, and a jar of mayonnaise with some paper plates and plastic cutlery. He would've considered that a little stingy except he'd noticed her jeans were always well-worn, the broken ear-piece on her glasses had been repaired with thin strips of duct tape, and a nicely-dressed woman who gave off a chilly vibe and carried a briefcase came to the bakery every day after the kids got home from school.

Whoever she was, she was doing something for Sally, and it seemed to cost a good chunk of money. Clearly most of her income went into her kids, running her bakery, and…whatever was going on with the woman with the briefcase. He figured divorce lawyer. Not that it mattered, except it was just one more person he'd have to deal with while he was here.

He wondered briefly if the woman standing in front of him had any idea he'd just unraveled her entire life from glancing out the window perhaps a handful of times in four days. Usually civilians didn't react well to information like that.

"What's in the basket?" He asked, eyeing it. Instinct told him it was safe…but instinct had also told him that the mission to exterminate Captain America was going to be routine, and it had been anything but. He couldn't rely on instinct anymore.

She shrugged. The scent of bread and something unidentifiable wafted toward him. "Breakfast pies—egg and sausage—and some muffins of various incredible flavors. I bake when I'm stressed," she added with an apologetic shrug. "And business is slow today since it's only a couple days before Spring Break. Everyone's packing up to leave, making plans. I'll be swamped Friday evening, though." She affected a mock-shudder. "It's the we-don't-  
feel-like-cooking-before-our-road-trip-or-paying-airport-prices-on-food-so-let's-raid-Sally's-place rush. I might need some help if you're interested in getting some of your rent knocked off."

Feigning the good ol' boy charm he'd used on her when he'd signed up to rent the place, he smiled. "You got anything a little less…customer service? I'm not much of a people person."

She arched a slender auburn brow. "You shy, Jack?" Then she joggled the basket. "My arm's getting tired; you mind?" He took the basket of food, covered by a cloth to keep the heat in. Tipped his head in silent thanks. She smiled. Nibbled on her lower lip as she studied him. He had the sudden urge to shut the door, to put some kind of barrier between them.

He'd had very few dealings with mutants. Sally got hunches. Okay, what did that mean? He couldn't be sure, which meant she was an unknown variable. Not for the first time since dumping his duffel by the couch in the guest house living room, he considered whether he ought to leave at the end of the week. But he wasn't steady enough to think straight right now. Not with these whispers of memory flitting through his head like ghosts playing some sick game of tag. And if he wasn't steady, he couldn't guarantee avoiding HYDRA or SHIELD long enough to put the pieces together.

"I need my air-conditioner fixed," she finally said, but her eyes said something else. Something along the lines of _I know you're hiding something_. But she just asked, "You know anything about that sort of thing?"

Considering he could disarm over two-hundred different types of bomb, hotwire four dozen car models, disassemble and reassemble almost any firearm in under ninety seconds, and he could disable practically any security system that didn't belong to a super high-tech organization like SHIELD—and he could handle most of those, too—he figured he could handle an air-conditioner. Better to fix it for her now so she didn't have to deal with repairing it when the mild temperatures skyrocketed in summer.

"I could take a crack at it. But I thought someone was coming out to handle that for you."

"Miguel Quintana's dad," she said with a smile that would've given a barracuda nightmares. "Not happening unless it absolutely has to since I want to stick him in my industrial blender, press puree, and turn him into Soilent Green Gerbers. Lori still likes the occasional jar of baby apple sauce. So you'll take a look?" He nodded. She relaxed a fraction. "Thanks."

He lifted the basket and raised his own eyebrow. "You only gave me breakfast so I'd fix your air-conditioner."

Her smile flashed bright as the sun peeping through the dove-gray clouds overhead. "Dude. I've given you baked goods in cute baskets for the last four days. My air-conditioner isn't worth that kind of effort."

The laugh that came out wasn't part of his façade. The fact that he _could_ laugh at her sarcasm without having to fake it surprised him. He hadn't laughed like that in…he couldn't remember when.

"No," she continued, "breakfast is because I'm a generous and considerate soul and you seem like a lonely man who will quickly starve if someone generous and considerate doesn't feed you. Lunch and dinner will be for the air-conditioner. Okay? I'll be in the bakery doing my awesome baker-thing. House specialty today is pies. Just come on in when you're ready and ding the bell if I'm not out front. Laters."

Practically pirouetting, she glided down the short steps leading from the ground to the porch. She moved, he realized, like Agent Romanoff. Like the Black Widow. Not so much the lethal, predatory slide but…but there was something there. Something that told him Sally Gardner was very aware of her body and how it moved. A dancer, maybe. A martial artist? Something.

Well, might as well put on some civilian clothes, take in the necessary calories, and then get started. The work would help clear his head enough that he could think. Slivers of whatever knowledge he possessed of the past—knowledge that only existed in his nightmares—was beginning to creep through into the waking world. Once he figured out _how_ to fix the cooling unit, he could turn inward, concentrate on piecing those slivers together, while his body went on autopilot and fixed the air-conditioner.

**.**

It took him maybe twenty minutes to dress and fuel up. Despite the temperate weather, he wore a thin black sweater and gloves. Once it got warmer, he'd have to hit cooler climates to keep his wardrobe from raising red flags. For now he could still hide his cybernetic arm from civilians. Anyone noticing _that_ would automatically stick a big, fat target on his back.

The sign on the door had been flipped to _CLOSED_. That couldn't be right. But the place was deserted when he walked in. There was literally no one inside Sally's Pastry Garden except Sally herself. A wireless phone sat on the counter next to where the woman had her head buried in her arms. Flour sprinkled one sleeve of her floral-print shirt. Her flour-dusted fingers curled together so tightly her knuckles turned white. A silver service bell glinted in the light drifting in from the windows. The sleek, multi-colored cat sat on a bar stool, slim white paws on the counter. When the door wheezed open, the cat turned galaxy-blue eyes on him and said, "Mrewt."

"We're closed," Sally growled thickly from the safety of her arms. The cat turned back to the woman. "Get out."

"I'm here to fix the air-conditioner…should I come back later?" He asked, brows drawing sharply together when Sally raised a tearstained face to stare at him with exhausted eyes. But she shook her head. Wiped at her face. There was a smear of chocolate on her left cheek.

"No," she mumbled. "Sorry." She drew a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut. She seemed to be pushing everything down, her face pink with effort, but then her expression relaxed and she opened her eyes. "Uh…it's by the back window. Here, I'll show you." Giving the cat a rub between the ears—he could've sworn he heard her say, _Thanks much, Poofy-girl_—Sally came out from behind the counter and gestured for him to follow her around the corner to where an air-conditioner blocked one window. There was a red tool-box underneath. She flicked a hand at the cooler unit. "There."

This was not the woman who'd brought him breakfast earlier. This woman looked ready to give up on everything. But it wasn't his business. Whatever her problem was, he didn't have to time to get involved. He was doing this job so he could make his small stash of cash stretch until he could get out of this town. But he thought of the phone lying on the counter. Thought of two little jerks that made him want to punch them just for their arrogance in challenging him.

"Your kids okay?" He asked before he realized what he was doing. If that punk Miguel Quintana and his little friend had done something to the kids, that would explain why she was so upset. It would also mean he hadn't done enough to put the fear of God into them.

Sally flashed him a wan smile. "They're fine. Thanks. No, I uh…Becky and Jamie had a birthday last week."

Flipping the latches on the tool-box, he didn't look up when he asked, "And this is a bad thing?" Why was he even asking her? He didn't care. Or he shouldn't have cared. He was a weapon, a tool. Nothing more. He didn't have time for feelings, for sympathy.

Except those were all HYDRA lies. He wasn't just their poisoned knife, their hidden gun. He could do what he wanted now because he'd left them. He didn't have to worry about them finding out about this and sticking him back inside that chair that sent twenty-thousand volts of pain ricocheting around inside his skull, obliterating everything that made him who he was. So he could ask whatever question he wanted.

The sound of flesh gently impacting wood told him Sally had dropped herself against the wall. There was a low sort of swishing noise as she slid to the floor and stretched out her legs. She sat far enough away that he had plenty of room. "No," she replied with a sigh. "The birthday's not the problem. But now that she's seven, she doesn't qualify for this program I had her in. She had a private tutor to help her with school and things. I just got a call letting me know that thanks to budget cuts and organization reforms, we don't have the tutor anymore."

"Why does she need a tutor?" It took seconds to unscrew the tiny bolts holding the access panel to the unit in place. He stuck the bolts in his pocket so they wouldn't fall somewhere he couldn't get them.

Sally sighed. "Don't know if you noticed she doesn't talk much?" He shrugged in lieu of an answer. He'd sort of noticed that in the back of his mind. The kids played outside after school; he could hear them over the sounds of keyboard keys and YouTube videos. Jamie's voice was always the main source of noise, and Will after that. Usually he only heard Becky say _yeah_ or _no_. "She hardly ever talks unless she's prompted, at least in public."

"She knows how?"

There was a long silence, and then Sally said, "My daughter's not stupid. She knows how to communicate. She just…I don't know. The doctors said there's a disconnect in her brain somewhere. Part of her autism. She knows the words, she can put them together on paper. She knows how to write, and she can pick out things from flashcards but she won't actually verbalize if she feels threatened in any way." She made a sharp, derisive noise. "I don't even know why I'm telling you this."

"Because I asked," he replied, grabbing for a wrench. He had his eye on a bit of cooling coil that looked odd, but there were things in his way. "So she needs the tutor to learn how to talk."

"Sort of. She needs her for other things. Learning to socialize, that sort of thing. It's hard for people with autism. Humans are predators, right? We're sort of top of the food chain. We don't think like prey animals," Sally said. He held back a snort. Until a little less than a month ago, that had been pretty much all most people were to him. Either prey or inconsequential. HYDRA thinking. But he let her keep talking. There was a low, soothing quality to her voice. He had a feeling she'd perfected that with her daughter. "Autistic people—a lot of them, anyway—their brains are wired as if they _were_ prey animals. So Becky has trouble with a lot of behavior most people think is normal."

"Like making eye-contact," he hazarded, twisting the wrench.

Another sigh. "You noticed that, huh? Yeah. For the longest time she wouldn't look at anybody except Jamie. It's weird. She has a lot fewer problems with him than anyone else, even me. I'm not sure how she feels about you yet." Then she chuckled, but there was almost no humor in it. "Wanna make some money? _You_ could tutor her."

A brief explosion of pain sparked in his foot when he dropped the heavy wrench and it smacked his toe. He twisted to look over his shoulder at his landlady, who sat with her legs splayed and her head tilted against the wall behind him, eyes closed.

"You were kidding, right?"

She sighed. "Yeah, sure, whatever." When he glanced at her again, he saw she'd dropped her head in her hands. "I'm going to have to do it. I just don't know where I'm going to find the time with everything else going on." Tucking her hair behind her ears, she pulled her glasses off and let them dangle between her fingers by the unbroken earpiece. "I have to, though. If she doesn't keep up in school, they'll kick her out because they 'can't meet her needs.' Ugh, I hate small towns. If I just had someone to help me mind the bakery…"

_Hint, hint_, he thought. Yeah, that wasn't happening. Easiest way for someone to alert HYDRA to his presence. Once—just once—he'd gotten caught on that stupid video site, YouTube, because some crazy girl had recorded him on her phone when he'd been in the middle of a mission. He'd _thought_ she was in the middle of calling 911 and so he hadn't bothered to stop her or take the phone.

That had been a mistake. HYDRA had made that very clear after the video had attracted over a million views and comments ranging from how "sick" and "cool" he supposedly was to how "hawt" he was. It still baffled him that women found stone-cold killers attractive, but that little incident had taught him that his face garnered attention and meeting the kind of people—for example, young women like that girl with her video-phone—who came to bakeries for muffins and frappes put him at risk.

"Sorry," he mumbled, because that was what people said when someone unloaded information like this on them. A false sentiment of sympathy most of the time. Well, he _was_ sorry that she had to deal with these sorts of problems. She seemed pretty decent. He liked her okay—which surprised him, because liking people wasn't something HYDRA usually allowed. He forced himself _not_ to suppress the emotion out of habit the way he usually did. He wasn't with HYDRA anymore. He could like something or someone if he wanted, as long as he was careful to keep it inward. So he liked Sally. She'd been kind to him. But that didn't mean he was putting on a frilly apron and bussing tables.

There was no response except a squeak and a familiar "mrewt." A quick scan showed him the elegant cat with the galaxy-blue eyes stretched out across Sally's leg, rubbing her head against the woman's ribs. Another cat—this one a pale cream with golden eyes and a tail like a squirrel—squirmed and wriggled on the floor, glancing every so often at Sally as if for approval or to see if she'd noticed the cat's attempts to be cute.

Sally rubbed the kitten's stomach. "Hey, Custard. Yes, I see you. You're cute and adorable and your tail is so fluffy I'm going to die. Don't you feel awesome?" The kitten purred like a machine.

"Another mascot?" He asked, wondering how she got away with having animals in a place that sold commercial foods.

She smiled. "Nope. Starbright, the beautiful old lady-cat, is our one and only mascot. Aren't you, you beauteous poof-poof?" She gave the older cat's lower back and haunches a vigorous rub. Starbright stretched and closed her eyes dreamily. He had to admit, the cat's back end was pretty fluffy. Sally tilted her chin at the kitten. "But Custard is…special. He keeps the place safe. Let's just leave it at that."

Okay. Whatever _that_ meant.

**.**

He should've expected trouble, even in a sleepy little town like Whistle-Stop. But he hadn't expected anyone to find him so fast, and he hadn't expected to walk right into a trap.

The new cashier arrived a few days later. He looked about college-age, curly brown hair and a friendly smile. He kept a camera hanging from a strap around his neck. Every so often he'd snap a picture of some customer he found interesting or of the carefully plated display goods Sally sometimes set up in the glass display cupboards under the counter. The assassin—Jack, he had to think of himself as Jack; survival depended on immersing himself in the new identity for now—_Jack_ had given the kid one wintry look when he'd raised his camera. Wisely, the kid had put the camera down before someone got hurt.

Jack didn't trust him as far as he could throw him. The kid wasn't from the town; he was on vacation for a while from Manhattan, supposedly trying to "figure things out." He'd mentioned something else about "needing to get away." Yeah, his arrival wasn't suspiciously convenient at all. Instinct told him the kid wasn't what he appeared, but that didn't mean he was SHIELD or HYDRA. Still…

It was the kid's arrival that made him stick around for the entirety of the second week and on into the third week. If he _was_ with HYDRA or SHIELD, letting him know the assassin had made him would bring other agents down on this place. People could get hurt. He might get captured. That wasn't an option. So Jack kept a wary eye on this new guy, Peter, when he wasn't holed up in the guest house watching news coverage on what had gone down in DC. Videos were still popping up on YouTube, people were blogging about the revelation of SHIELD and HYDRA secrets, and a lot of people wanted the Black Widow brought down for treason or murder, depending on their standpoint.

Captain America, Jack learned after a few days of fruitless searching, had dropped off the grid. Jack had contacts that could find him, but only a certain select few of those contacts weren't attached to HYDRA. Those guys were usually called in to dispose of bodies. He didn't want that kind of attention on Steve.

Steve…Jack's fingers hovered the laptop keyboard. He stared at the screen, seeing nothing. It was the first time he'd thought of Captain Rogers as _Steve_. The name sent a pulse through his brain, like ripples in a pond. Images flashed through his mind, smears of color flickering so fast he couldn't make them out. Pain lanced through his temples. For a split-second he could've sworn electricity crackled against his skin on either side of his skull, sizzling through nerve endings and neurons, attempting to blank out the images. He latched onto one slice of memory. Gripped it as his teeth snapped together and blood filled his mouth.

_"You help people, Bucky. You always have. You're just a good guy like that. You never back down when a bully tries to step on your toes, why should I?"_ Skinny kid, short, pale, breathing heavily and blotting blood from a split eyebrow with a handkerchief. Blue eyes bright with brotherly affection. A tear marred the white button-down shirt. Blood sprinkled one cuff. The kid's knuckles oozed blood.

_"Because you're half a foot shorter and seventy pounds skinnier."_

His voice. Was that his voice? It couldn't be, he'd never had a laugh in his voice without putting it there, forcing it there, using it as a mask. He'd never sounded like that. And yet…

Steve. Bucky. He remembered that look of shock, hope so painful you almost couldn't stand it, when Captain America—when _Steve_—had looked at him without his mask for the first time. _Bucky?_ And he'd shot back with, _Who the hell is Bucky?_

How much had HYDRA stolen from him?

_I don't know you!_

_Yes…you do_. He hadn't been trying to fight him off then. Captain America hadn't battled the Winter Soldier. He'd surrendered. He'd laid down his shield, the best weapon he had, and let an assassin take shot after shot at him. The words hadn't been a trick. The assassin had seen the resignation in his target's eyes. He'd known the Winter Soldier meant to kill him and yet…

_I'm with you to the end of the line._

And it was there, teasing him, just on the edges of his consciousness. Knowledge. Memory. He could feel it whispering, calling to him. It would be so simple to get it back. All he had to do was reach out and take it—

_Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!_

The fragment shattered under the hammer-blows of someone pounding on his door. His metal hand convulsed into a fist as he lunged to his feet, still tasting the blood in his mouth from where he'd bitten his tongue. Who was hammering on his door? Who thought it was just swell to come waltzing up his front porch and—

He yanked the door open and froze when he saw Sally with tears brimming in her eyes and her mouth trembling. A bruise darkened the edge of her cheekbone.

_You help people, Bucky_. The words resonated in his skull and a piece that had been missing inside him for too long clicked back into place. The anger roiling in his chest did a sharp one-eighty. Sally wasn't the target anymore. Whoever had put that bruise on her face was. He stared at her as the rest of the memory echoed on. _You always have. You're just a good guy like that._

"Jack, is Becky with you?"

His eyebrows furrowed sharply. "What? No. Why would she be with me? What happened to your face?"

Sally waved that away. "I slipped. Not important. Becky's not with you?"

"No."

She stared at him, golden-brown eyes wide and wet, before she covered her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut. She hunched her shoulders. A low sound escaped her, a sound like someone swallowing a sob. Without thinking he put a hand on her shoulder.

"What? Sally, what is it?"

The breath she sucked in sounded like it hurt. "I can't find her," she whispered. "I left her downstairs with Jamie and went upstairs to wake up Lori and Will from their nap, it's Saturday and I said they could play outside." She gestured helplessly to the grassy space between the bakery and the guest house. Jamie was there, wandering through the grass. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called his twin sister's name. "People could _see_ them. And Becky never wanders off places, she doesn't talk to strangers, she'd never go with someone! But Jamie thought he heard me calling him so he came around to the front door and when he went back outside she was gone!" She swiped at her face and drew another shuddering breath. "I thought maybe she was with you. She likes you."

She did? He filed that away for further examination at a later date and narrowed his eyes, studying the grassy lot. He didn't know much about autistic kids in general or Becky in particular, but if Sally said she wouldn't just walk off, then he believed her. But Sally also said she wouldn't go passively with a stranger.

He frowned. "You got any hunches?" He asked, more to buy himself some time to think than because he actually cared or put much stock in that stuff. This didn't feel right. Something about this felt off. The bakery was close enough, Jamie couldn't have mistaken his mother calling him. Someone had called him. Had Becky been kidnapped by someone while Jamie was lured away? Who would want a kid like Becky, even for some sort of sick game? None of this felt right. His instincts were crawling, the hair at his nape prickling.

"Just that I needed to come talk to you so I thought she might be here. Peter's watching the kids."

Wait…talk to _him?_ About this? Why…

His phone buzzed and everything in him went still. His phone shouldn't have been buzzing. It was a new cell, without any bugs or traces or taps from HYDRA. He'd ditched his old one just to escape that sort of thing. No one should've had his number.

"Just a second," he muttered, and pulled out the phone. New text message from a number he didn't recognize. Angling himself so Sally couldn't see the readout, he clicked the text open. It was a long one, and it wasn't good news.

_i'm insulted you didn't recognize me_  
_i read your file i'm a big fan_  
_but you need to do something about the kids_  
_they're your big weak spot_  
_you don't even know this kid_  
_but i bet you'll find me just to get her back_  
_don't know why you want her tho_  
_she's a bit defective_  
_just sitting here looking at hermit crabs_  
_poking jelly with sticks_  
_you got six hours Winter Soldier_  
_and then everyone in town starts hunting you_

And there was a picture of Becky sitting against something dark, squatting on her heels while she peered down at something out of camera-shot. He glanced at Sally, who was staring off into space. She gnawed on one knuckle and tapped her foot. Jack slid the phone back in his pocket.

"Hey, Sally, I'm sorry. I need to go."

She whipped back around. "Go where? I was hoping you could help me—"

"I'd like to, I just…" Six hours. Six hours until everyone started hunting him. Why would that happen? What could the guy do to Becky that would make Whistle-Stop come after him? Whatever it was, it told the assassin one thing—this guy wasn't HYDRA. His ex-handlers didn't want his face plastered all over the news and on the internet. They wanted him as their secret weapon, their poisoned knife. "I have to go."

A tear slipped down her cheek. "But…Jack, not a lot of people in town will help me. They'll just say I should've watched her better. Jack, please I need you to help me. Can't whatever this is…can't it wait?"

Refusing to help would cause problems. Helping would waste his time. He didn't even know where Becky was except…

…_looking at hermit crabs, poking jelly with sticks…_

She was on the beach. Somewhere. But he couldn't tell Sally that because if she found out where her daughter was, she'd no doubt rush off like any normal person would and get both of them killed. No, this person had challenged him. Taken something right out from under the Winter Soldier's nose to taunt him. He needed to take care of it.

And besides, whoever the guy was, he was right. Kids were his weak spot. HYDRA had done their best to beat that out of him but it had always been there, a single thread of defiance. He didn't take out child targets and he didn't use children as tools to take out adult targets.

"Okay," he said, trying not to grit his teeth. "I'll help you look. We'll trade cell numbers and split up, okay?" That way he could hit the beach and "find" Becky before anyone got hurt…except whoever had found him. Even if kids hadn't been involved, even if pride hadn't been involved, the guy needed to die anyway because someone—someone dangerous—had found him. No one in this town was safe if that information got back to HYDRA.

Sally threw her arms around him so quickly he didn't have time to dodge or catch her before she was embracing him. "Thank you," she whispered. "I'm just really scared for her. Thank you."

"Uh, yeah." He carefully maneuvered her arms away once enough time had passed that it wouldn't be awkward. "You're welcome."

They had six hours to find Becky. It would be dark in six hours. What could possibly happen involving that kid that would make everyone in town form some sort of angry mob specifically to hunt him down and try to lynch him? Why would they go after him when…

_Oh,_ he thought with grim respect as he and Sally exchanged numbers and took off down the steps. _Oh, aren't you just so smart? Frame me for Becky's murder. Clever, clever. Well it's not happening today. You might be good at what you do, but I'm better_. But as he split off from Sally and arrowed for the beach, he still had one question nagging at him.

Who had found him? And what had they meant when they'd said he hadn't recognized them?

.

_The present…_

.

A cool breeze sharp with evergreen spice chilled the tacky, congealed blood on his skin as Jack crouched low and moved off through the trees above the underground HYDRA complex. The boreal forest was practically frigid in winter; thankfully it was summer. Forty degrees was nothing for a super-soldier in combat gear. Handgun at the ready, he moved at a steady pace through the trees, logging the landmarks he'd memorized on his way into the compound.

The chopper would pick him up at the rendezvous point when he radioed in using the transmitter in his cybernetic arm. He'd called in a few favors to get an untraceable, military-grade chopper all the way out here in the middle of nowhere, but that didn't matter. Once he was in the air, he could get to DC and find Steve. The other super-soldier would help. He had to.

They were best friends, after all.

It was only a few seconds after the wind picked up, stirred by the chopper blades as the helicopter slowly descended toward the forest clearing, that Jack's secondary disposable cell buzzed.

Sometimes he considered just crushing the things and never buying another one because they almost always brought bad news. This time was no exception.

_We're being followed._  
_Safe houses are being watched._  
_What do we do?_

— _Sally_


	4. Closer Than They Appear

_**Author's Note:**__ sorry this has taken so long. I actually lost this document for a while, so shout out to my roommate for helping me find it! Anywho, enjoy your guys' October! See you soon! And let me know what you think, okay? Reviews are love; enjoy!_

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**Chapter Four**

**Closer Than They Appear**

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_The present…_

.

Steve stared at the little boy with tears rolling down his dirty cheeks. _Jack's my friend…he's gotta get Jamie. The bad guys took him away…_Bucky was out there, looking for a little boy who'd been stolen by "bad guys." What bad guys? HYDRA? The super soldier had known even back when everything had gone down in DC that HYDRA wasn't really gone. But why take this Jamie kid?

Tony posed the question aloud, leaning back against his shiny chrome desk. He wasn't looking at the kid—_His name is Will_—the text from Bucky (it _had_ to be Bucky, Steve thought) had said—but Will responded anyway.

"The bad guys wanna trap him."

"What do you mean?" Natasha asked, still clutching at the nice-lady persona she'd erected once she figured out the little boy wasn't a walking, talking bomb. "Why would they need your brother for that?"

Will scrubbed at his face. It was only when Pepper offered him a handkerchief that Steve realized the five-year-old was trying to scrub the tears away. Sniffling, the kid said, "Jamie's really sick. He's got…um…pamonia. He was at the hospital. That's how the bad guys found us."

"Pamonia?" Tony echoed, brow furrowing.

Pepper's eyes widened. "Will, honey—do you mean pneumonia?"

"Yeah!" Will nodded so hard Steve wondered whether his head was going to pop off. "Yeah, that. He had to go to the hospital. Jack didn't want to and Mommy said it was dangerous but we had to 'cause, 'cause Jamie was so sick. And Jack got scared 'cause cars was following us sometimes and then…" The little boy's face crumpled. He hugged himself and hiccupped on a sob. "Then the bad guys came and Jack tried to stop 'em but they took Jamie."

Then the kid started to cry, big gasping sobs while he covered his eyes with his hands. Steve wasn't sure what to do with a crying kid this young. Not when he was upset about something this big. But Pepper came to the rescue, scooping Will up and setting him on her lap. She hugged the little boy, rocking him slightly as she whispered soothingly to him.

Steve turned to Tony and Natasha. He knew the SHIELD agent would be harder to convince than the philanthropic genius. Tony had no grudges against Bucky, but the Winter Soldier had shot Natasha twice—once in the abdomen and once in the shoulder. Getting her to agree to help him could prove a little tricky.

He should've expected her to beat him to the punch.

"I'll help you with this on three conditions. One, you bring in Sam Wilson," Natasha said. Steve blinked, startled. Tony raised his eyebrows. "Two, you call in the Avengers. At least the ones currently residing on Earth." The super soldier didn't point out to Natasha that it wasn't difficult for him to get in touch with Thor, Loki, and the Avenger that Director Fury was currently codenaming Mirage (in private he called her PITA, and it was obvious to anyone who knew about their relationship what _that_ stood for). Natasha hadn't reconciled Loki's involvement with SHIELD or the Avengers Initiative yet. Not after what Loki had done to Agent Barton. So he kept quiet as she added, "And I fill in Director Fury because you know if he finds out about this from anyone else, there will be hell to pay."

Since he had to admit the sleek spy had a point, he didn't argue. Just nodded. If they had to include SHIELD, so be it. Nick had already promised Captain America that if the Winter Soldier was found, SHIELD's resources would be at Steve's disposal, and the Avengers were granted the go-ahead to try everything they could to bring Bucky in safely.

It was just…no one had ever imagined he would make contact with Steve and the rest of them on his own. If he was reaching out now, when he'd been silent for months, all because of this missing kid…it meant Bucky didn't have a handle on the situation and needed help.

_I'm with you to the end of the line…_

"Do what you gotta do, Tasha," Steve said. "I'll hit up Sam on my way up to the penthouse. Stark." He focused on Iron Man, who quit slouching against the desk and put on his serious-face. Pepper was still soothing a quietly weeping Will. "Stark, you in?"

"Helping a beautiful damsel in distress, possibly getting on Fury's nerves, _and_ surreptitiously flicking SHIELD in the face? Because come on, let's face it—you know it embarrasses them that this Frosty Soldier guy kicked the crap out of them and then got away by dropping completely off the grid for almost a year. Dude, I am _totally_ in. Let's go tell Bruce we've got a field trip today, class!"

**.**

The Boeing AH-64 Apache chopper surged through vertical takeoff with mere minutes of touching down. The Winter Soldier leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. So far they hadn't been spotted. Still, his companion—a black market mercenary whose services as a bodyguard didn't come cheap, but once paid for couldn't be stolen by outbidding from the enemy—hadn't chosen the Apache for nothing. The twin-engine attack helicopter was armed with a nose-mounted sensor suite, night vision systems, an M230 Chain Gun, multi-target capable AGM-114 Hellfire missiles, and (the irony didn't escape him) more than a dozen Hydra 70 rockets. If HYDRA went for them, the Winter Soldier would be ready.

Just as he'd been ready the night Becky had been taken. He'd been prepared for HYDRA during his weeks in Whistle-Stop, and for SHIELD, never stopping to think that maybe his enemies weren't the ones he was expecting, and they might've been closer than he ever suspected…

**.**

_11 months ago…_

**.**

The jutting stones were sharp when they scraped against his black jeans. The pathway down from the rocky bluffs on the other side of town wound through boulders and sloped on sand that threatened to slide out from under his boots, but Jack kept his footing. He was coming this way for a reason. He knew whoever had taken Becky was somewhere on the beach and they'd be expecting him. Of course, since the Winter Soldier was well known among the international crime underground, they would also know he most likely wouldn't approach directly. So there was backup somewhere on the beach. If he found the backup, he'd find the kidnapper.

How to find the backup? He did a quick search on his phone about the Whistle-Stop beach, one of those little known, out of the way tourist attractions. There were only three places along the beach that butted up against dark cliffs - he'd seen that entering the town. One of those was a little sandy cove you had to swim to get to; the place had made the news because a month back, a pair of teenage lovebirds had drowned at high tide. Another was a nesting place for some rare breed of sea turtle and all the egg-laying sites were cordoned off with caution tape.

That left one place where that photograph had to have been taken. The assassin was pretty sure the kidnappers weren't planning to take off after sending him the picture, or else why send that specific picture - with those specific clues, about hermit crabs and jelly? They wanted him to know Becky was on the beach waiting for him.

If he'd been anyone else, he might've been insulted by the first attack. Who did they think they were dealing with?

First warning: sand scuffed against rock, a boot sliding before traction grabbed it.

Second warning: a seagull screamed, the sound bouncing off rock and beach. Not a gull in the air, a gull near the ground. Why? Split-second question, split-second answer - something dangerous near a nest.

Third warning: the stink of brine, sharp and nearly overwhelming, suddenly cut by the smell of stale sweat and metal. Man. Fighter. Weapon. Scents brought on a gust of breeze upwind of the sea.

A click, soft against the shriek of gulls.

Gripping his knife in his right hand, he curled the vibranium fingers of his left. The bang echoed across the sand, bouncing off boulders, as the assassin twisted, yanking his arm up, one hand in front of his forehead. The pain-circuits in his metal hand sizzled as the bullet ricocheted off his palm and embedded itself in a rock. Successfully blocked kill-shot.

_Try again_, he snarled silently as he hefted his knife by the blade and threw it. It spun end over end, winking in the sunlight, before slicing through scrub higher up on the beach. A satisfying _thunk_ reached his ears. The thud of a body hitting sand. _Or not_, he added as he scrambled back up the bank to retrieve his knife.

The body lying on the gravel, limbs splayed and rifle still in hand, didn't look familiar to him at all. Blood trickled from the corner of the open mouth; not surprising, since the assassin's knife had punched through his chest and no doubt flooded his lungs with blood. The blade was wide enough, he'd probably punctured the visceral pericardium, which pretty much guaranteed near-instant death. Good. Stepping carefully around the corpse, he knelt and rifled the pockets of the white jacket. No wallet, no ID. Typical for an assassin. But he found one thing, wedged carefully down in the bottom of a pocket. A white business card with three familiar letters on it and a number.

_**A.I.M.  
(555) 146-1966**_

AIM? AIM was hiring people to kill him now? Why? The techno-terrorists had always been allied with HYDRA. Dr. Zola's little transfer into the gargantuan computer underground had been organized and made possible by AIM's top scientists. HYDRA didn't want him dead, they wanted him _back_…so why let one of their allies send an assassin after him? And how had they found him in the first place?

He wiped the knife on the corpse but didn't resheathe it. Pressing the blade flat against his thigh to keep the light reflection from giving him away, he headed down along the beach. One enemy dead meant he was that much closer to finding Becky and the kidnapper.

Habits had a way of getting people killed, the assassin reflected almost leisurely when the scent of spearmint stung his nose. Movement flickered in the corner of his eye. Adrenaline spiked through his blood like lightning as he ducked the knife slicing toward his throat. A fist thudded hard against his forearm as he blocked the next strike. The knife swiped again, caught the underside of his arm. Pain stung. He pushed it aside.

A single metal punch to the face broke his assailant's nose and several teeth. The would-be hitman dropped to the sand, clutching his bleeding mouth. The assassin stomped down hard twice on the exposed torso, breaking several ribs, driving the breath out of him. A garbled scream tried to escape the AIM soldier. He silenced it by gripping the man's head and twisting sharply once, snapping the neck. He sighed. Two bodies already. He'd have to make a call, have someone come in and clean up after him. It happened that way sometimes. He had someone on tap for that, someone separate from HYDRA - even when he'd been under their thumb, he'd known one day he might have to rabbit - but he'd have to wait to call them. A phone call could be the thing that gave him away to any other thugs waiting to try and take him down.

He just hoped no one found the bodies before his cleanup guy arrived. Luckily the guy owed him a favor, so he wouldn't have to pay - this time. Since he hadn't figured out how to hack into his own bank accounts without HYDRA or SHIELD taking notice, that was a lucky break.

The foot to the face just pissed him off.

The shock of the heel hitting his chin should've done some serious damage to his face and teeth, but the super-soldier serum in his veins dulled the pain to an ache. The assassin caught the foot that had lashed out at him and twisted sharply. The ankle snapped with an audible crack and his attacker lost their balance and fell. They didn't have time to scream before their head cracked on a stone protruding from the sand.

Jack checked the pulse just to be sure, but he could already tell. People had a quality to them that leeched away in death. The third AIM soldier lay with eyes glazed, staring unseeing up at the sky. He stepped over the body and kept walking.

Ocean spray lightly dampened his jacket and jeans as he strode along the beach, wary for another attack. Nothing came. No one was out on the beach. The setting sun painted the sky with blood and fire. More blood-red light stained the sea. If he'd been a superstitious type, that would've made him nervous. Instead he kept a grip on his knife and kept moving.

Sand crunched underfoot. Hermit crabs scuttled away as he came close, darting back into their holes as his shadow brushed over them. The high ground sloped downward and practically disappeared into rolling dunes dotted with grass, olive against the dun sand. More walking as the sun sank lower and lower led him to where the beach began to slope down and the dunes on his right to transform into boulders, then steep hills, then cliffs. The shore curved around the jutting prow of the cliff-face. The assassin didn't slow down, didn't hesitate, didn't falter. And all the while he factored the odds.

What did the kidnapper want with him? His arm? The cybernetic prosthetic was a technological masterpiece. Dr. Zola himself had built it and now that Steve and the Black Widow had succeeded in tricking HYDRA into blowing the not-so-good doctor up, AIM had no way of recreating the piece. Maybe that was what AIM wanted…

Another question: how had they even found him? The kidnapper had said he'd failed to recognize them. That meant they'd seen him, and he'd seen them. So why hadn't he noticed? Was it the new guy, Peter? No, because Sally had left him watching the kids. So who? And how?

They wouldn't kill him without gloating. He knew that much. It was a vibe he'd gotten from the text message. Whoever had kidnapped Becky, they wanted to brag about it first. They'd outsmarted him. They'd outdone him. They'd gotten him to come right to them by taking a little girl hostage.

Oh, wait until they learned their mistake.

"That's far enough, Winter Soldier."

He froze the instant the voice broke the silence, cursing inwardly because he'd been an idiot, he'd been so blind. Of course he hadn't noticed the AIM soldier who'd recognized him. He'd avoided looking to closely at her because…because he'd started becoming fond of Sally. Because he'd tried to keep his emotional distance from her and her kids who managed to pull the fragile shells of so many of his lost memories to the surface. So he hadn't looked closely enough. He'd ignored his instincts.

The woman standing perhaps a dozen yards away held a gun in one hand as easily as the briefcase she carried in the other. It was a Browning Hi-Power, a gun built for a woman's smaller build that still managed to pack a lot of punch. Black matte paint killed its shine. The barrel drifted lazily along the back of Becky's head like a caress.

Becky didn't even seem to notice. She was mounding little piles of sand, scooping up handfuls of water from a tide pool and wetting the sand to hold it together, then stick skinny sea shells and driftwood twigs in them. She was humming the same four-note tune over and over as she worked on her sand-piles, but rocking back and forth, too. He'd seen her do that after she'd escaped the playground shed his first day in town, but she wasn't screaming now.

"Agent Neramani, at your service," the woman added. "AIM liaison."

"You're right," he called amiably, shifting his grip on his knife. He couldn't throw it. Not with that gun against Becky's head. "I should've recognized you. You AIM agents all give off the same vibe."

"Efficient?" She asked with a smile. Her dark eyes gleamed as if this were all a joke.

He forced down the anger sizzling under his skin. They'd come into his place, the town where he'd set up base, expecting to just walk away afterward?

Not. Happening.

"Ruthless," he replied in a voice of icy calm. He gestured with his chin to Becky. "How did you get her to go with you? Mrs. Gardner seemed to be under the impression that she wouldn't go with anyone willingly."

The woman smiled. "Not a stranger, certainly. But her occupational therapist? The woman who's been helping her navigate the difficulties of normal school for the last two years? I know how to get Rebecca to cooperate with me."

That was where he'd seen this woman before - she was the woman in the business suit with the briefcase who always came to the bakery when the children came home from school. She'd stopped coming after he and Sally had talked about Becky no longer qualifying for the program that gave Sally reduced rates on the speech and occupational therapy.

But that hadn't been it at all. No, the woman had stopped coming because she'd seen Jack and recognized him as the Winter Soldier. Had this been her cover? A false life until AIM activated her as one of their agents? HYDRA had dozens of sleeper agents like that all over the world; why not AIM? But seeing the legendary Winter Soldier, the ghost assassin, after he'd dropped so far off the radar a submarine couldn't find him…she'd had to contact AIM. She'd had to tell her superiors. And they had told her to make a move on him using his only weakness.

"Now I'm here, you can let her go." Not that it would be that easy. It never was. But there was no reason not to ask. It wasn't as if this woman didn't know his main priority was Becky.

"She doesn't want to leave, do you, Sunshine?" She smiled almost fondly at the girl on the receiving end of her Browning, who continued rocking. The humming had stopped. "See, the thing is, if she doesn't go to therapy every day, she internalizes a lot. This rocking thing? Playing with the sand? She's stimming; she probably doesn't even know what's going on right now because she's oblivious to everything, locked in her own little world. She probably doesn't even know you're here."

An idea popped into his head. She'd taken Becky because Becky knew her. Because Becky would come willingly. _Quietly_. If Becky started making noise, panicking the way she had the day Jack had walked into town when Miguel Quintana had locked her in the playground shed, what would the AIM agent do? Shoot the kid? But if she shot her hostage, there was nothing to stop him from killing her. Which meant if he could get Becky to understand what was happening…maybe he could get her to react to danger, and if she reacted, it might distract Neramani.

_I thought she might be with you. She likes you…She probably doesn't even know you're here…_

"Becky," he called. The little girl's hands froze in the process of sticking a seagull feather into a sand-pile. Agent Neramani's expression turned brittle; she glanced at Becky, who wasn't looking at Jack but wasn't building her little piles anymore either. She kept rocking, but a little slower now. "Becky, your mom is really worried about you. You understand what I mean? Your mom is really worried."

Neramani snorted. "It's not going to work. She doesn't know you. She's not going to respond to you. She's certainly not going to come to you." The AIM agent kept her gun trained on the back of the little girl's head.

"Becky," he tried again. In his mind he heard another voice, younger than his, a boy's voice, crying, _Bucky! Bucky!_ He pushed it aside and called, "Hey, Becky. You want to go home to your mom, right?"

The little girl dropped the seagull feather and rocked harder. She hugged her arms to her chest. She looked in his direction - not quite _at_ him, but near him - and frowned. Her mouth opened and a wrinkle creased between her eyebrows. She pressed her lips together. "Mommy?"

Neramani's gaze darted between the two of them. "Becky, don't talk to strangers. Don't talk to this man."

"That's right, Becky," he said, inching forward across the sand while the AIM agent's gaze was focused on the girl. "Mommy's worried about you. You need to go home. Can you go home?" _She's on a strict schedule and I expect you to respect that_, Sally had said a few weeks ago when she'd drilled him for information so she could pass judgment on his application to rent her guest house. As far as he knew, the little girl spent her evenings in the house. So…"Becky, shouldn't you be at home right now?"

Becky lifted her head and glanced around as if she'd just noticed where she was. The wrinkle between her eyebrows deepened. She glanced at her wrist; Jack saw she wore a pale blue watch with a grinning snowman on it. She looked around again. "Home," she murmured. She pushed to her feet. "Mommy. Should be home now." She took a step toward Jack.

Agent Neramani cocked the hammer on her Browning and leveled it at the back of Becky's head. "Drop the knife or I kill her now. I've sometimes wondered what the little freak's brains would look like."

The little freak in question frowned fiercely and shifted her weight to the balls of her feet as she began to rock slightly, arms curled against her thin chest. The Winter Soldier tightened his grip on the hilt of his knife. Neramani nudged the back of Becky's head with the barrel of the gun.

"Drop it."

Slowly, slowly, he knelt on the sand. He stretched out his arm. Had to place his blade in the exact right spot, amidst a scattering of slightly larger stones on the sand. The knife, perfectly balanced, didn't tip once he set it on top of one of the stones.

Neramani smiled. Set her briefcase on the sand by her feet. "That was really stupid, Winter Soldier."

Without a flicker of an eyelash, Neramani jerked the gun away from Becky. Her dark eyes narrowed. Even from a distance, the Winter Soldier could see the pupils dilating to take in the light, to focus on him. He braced for the bullet even as the toe of his boot pushed off the sand. Neramani's finger curled tight around the trigger as she swung the gun up, sighting along the barrel.

But the movement startled Becky, who let out a screech like an electrified cat. Neramani jerked as the bullet erupted from the muzzle of the gun in a flash just visible in the deepening dark. The assassin didn't wait to feel the bullet rip into his chest. The tip of his toe caught the hilt of his knife, kicking it into the air. He snatched it right-handed out of the air just as the bullet dinged off his left arm and buried itself in the sand. The blade slipped between his fingers as he stepped forward, drew back, and threw it at Neramani.

At the last possible second she dodged aside. Shock jolted through him along with the adrenaline. What? That was impossible. How had she…?

Not entirely human, he realized as she shot at him. He dove to the side and the bullet whizzed past. SHIELD had a few agents like that - Captain Rogers, for example - but he hadn't known AIM possessed any. Surging to his feet, he lunged for the AIM agent. He collided with her, metal arm first. Felt her ribs crack. Her scream escaped in a wheeze as he bore her down to the sand.

She tried to shove the gun between them, the muzzle pressed to his chest. He broke the finger she tried to insinuate around the trigger. She screamed again as he flipped her on her stomach, shoving her face into the sand underneath them. She flailed, trying to bring the gun around. A sharp backhand with his metal arm knocked the weapon skidding across the beach. Then, adrenaline burning in his blood and fury blazing in his eyes, he slid his hand beneath her head, between the sand and her face. Her neck snapped with a muffled crack and she went limp.

Shuddering, he simply sat there, sucking in sharp, icy breaths. It was cold on the beach now, the sun sunk below the horizon, the moon drifting up from the sea in a crescent as thin and sharp as a stiletto. The Winter Soldier shivered as the rage slowly ebbed. The absence of it left him hollow and sick in the pit of his stomach.

He'd thought he was done killing. He'd thought he was done being forced by faceless organizations into eliminating targets, snuffing out lives. But they'd found him, even here, and forced him to bathe his hands in blood again. He was tired of killing. Tired of missions. Tired of seeing or feeling the life drain from their bodies, leaving empty corpses behind. He was just…he was just so bloody tired.

They'd sent a lab rat to do an assassin's job. How stupid could AIM be? Why had they done it? Didn't they understand just who they were dealing with? He was the Winter Soldier! Even when he didn't want to be.

But no, AIM wasn't that stupid. They wouldn't have sent Neramani alone or even with the three men who'd tried to stop him on the way to getting to her. And they wouldn't have disobeyed direct orders from the AIM Board of Directors. Which meant Neramani had seen him and decided to take him out on her own. Stupid of her but…but instinct said AIM didn't know about his presence.

Yet.

After a few more moments of quiet filled only with the roaring of the sea and his own heartbeat slowly returning to normal, another sound pierced the assassin's exhaustion. It was a sort of rhythmic sound. It started as a soft grunt of effort but melted into what was almost - but not quite - a child's sob.

_Becky_, he realized as he moved away from the corpse. He stumbled on the sand. _Where's Becky?_

He nearly tripped over his knife, sticking hilt-up in the sand. He didn't worry about the gun - it didn't have his fingerprints on it, and cleanup wasn't his job anyway. He had someone for that and he paid them well enough he wasn't worried. Sheathing the knife again, he stumbled toward the sound of weeping. It had to be Becky. At least she wasn't screaming hysterically, though. Had she seen him kill Agent Neramani? Did she even understand that that was what he'd done?

He found her curled up and rocking hard in the sand, her back thumping against the cliff face. Reaching into his pocket, Jack pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open. Pale illumination from the screen revealed Becky's face streaked with tears. Her eyes were wide, the pupils dilated with fear.

"Becky," he said gently. She just kept rocking. "Becky, it's time to go home."

No response. He considered putting a hand on her shoulder, trying to make her hold still, but he remembered what her brothers had said - she didn't like to be touched when she was upset. What had Jamie done when she'd been hysterical before? He'd talked to her, moving his hands in a pattern the assassin didn't quite remember. And he'd said something about a box. Being safe in the box.

They had to get out of here. The gunshots wouldn't alert the authorities - Agent Neramani's silencer had seen to that - but the bodies had to be taken care of quickly before someone came along. And he couldn't afford to let his contact see his face. If the cleaner learned the person he owed a favor to was the Winter Soldier…well, it was no secret by now that the remnants of HYDRA were hunting him. Favor or not, his contact would turn him over.

"Becky, you're safe now," he said, feeling ridiculous. Did the kid even hear him? "Everything's okay. You're…you're in your box, okay? You're in your box." Was she slowing down a little bit? "Everything's fine. It's okay, Becky. It's okay." She _was_. "You're in your box. Nothing's going to happen in your box. You don't need to be scared."

She sniffled. Mumbled something. He couldn't quite make it out - something ending in a hard _kuh_-sound.

"It's okay," he continued murmuring. It felt so strange to just crouch here next to her. Heartless, almost. She was obviously upset and most people hugged upset, crying kids. But he thought again of what Will and Jamie had said. "Becky, it's okay. It's me, Jack. You remember me, right? Becky, it's me."

_Bucky…_That voice out of his dreams. Darkness and pain, a haze of it fogging the world. Couldn't move, couldn't even breathe deep without feeling those straps across his chest like malleable iron bars. BUt that voice. Breaking through the fog. Familiar, but impossible. He couldn't be there. There was no way, he'd left him safe back home. Back home…_Bucky, it's me. It's Steve._

"Jack."

The timid whisper somehow sliced through the flashback, jerking him back to the present. He stared at Becky, who huddled in on herself, rocking still. Her eyes were fixed on the lit phone in his hand.

Tentatively, she reached for it. Whispered, "Lie." He frowned. Lie? But no, she was talking again. "Lie-ight. Lie-ight." Her fingertips touched the glowing screen. She hiccupped. "Light. Dark." Her face crumpled and he realized what she wanted and why she was upset - not because of him, or what had happened, but because of the noise and the unfamiliar environment on top of the fact that it was dark.

"You want the phone?" He asked, holding it out to her after sending two rapid texts. "Here. Take it. If you press the buttons, then no more dark."

She practically ripped the phone out of his hands and held it close to her like a teddy bear. The light turned her face waxy. She stroked the screen like someone petting a cat. "Lie-ight. No…more…dark."

Jack drew a deep breath. "Right, no more dark. You ready to go home?"

"Home?" She echoed without looking at him. She closed her eyes. Shuddered. "Home. Want Mommy."

"Okay," he said, smiling. It felt like his face was about to crack in half. "Okay. Let's go home and see Mommy, okay?" He stood up when she did, and he let her take the first few hesitant steps herself without so much as a twitch from him. She looked around when they stepped away from the cliff. Whimpered. "It's okay," he said, coming to stand next to her. "It's okay. I know how to get back home. Come on. Just hold onto the light and we'll be okay."

She didn't let go of his phone the entire walk back along the beach. She kept stroking it almost compulsively, jabbing the buttons to keep the screen lit as they made their way back to the bakery. Only when they'd finally stepped into the glow given off by the outside lights did Becky relax her grip on the phone. When Sally bolted out through the front door, Becky jogged up the steps and then - to both his and Sally's surprise - pressed her face into her mother's stomach. She didn't put her arms around Sally or sag against her like another child might have, but Sally's mouth trembled and she laid careful hands on Becky's skinny shoulders. A tear spilled down her cheek. She looked at Jack.

"Thank you," she mouthed silently. He offered a nod and started to head around the building to the guest house when Sally called, "Jack?" The hair at the nape of his neck prickled. Instinct again, this time telling him to pretend he hadn't heard her. Telling him not to stop. Ignore the civilian because she was nothing but a distraction.

Except that was HYDRA thinking. He was _done_ with HYDRA thinking.

He turned back.

Sally held the front door open as Becky shuffled through it. The honey-gold eyes followed the little girl inside before fixing on Jack again. She offered him a wan smile. "Do you want to stay for dinner?"

Dinner. So simple. So homey. A whole different world, and yet…He could handle eating dinner with Sally and her kids, right? He needed sustenance, he didn't want to go into town after the fight on the beach - he could still smell the blood from the AIM agent he'd knifed, though none of it had transferred to him - and the food in the guest house was nearly gone.

Free food. It would be foolish to turn down free food. His stomach was making that very, _very_ clear. He'd been trained to ignore the demands of his body when necessary but the super-soldier serum poisoning his blood meant he needed to eat more often than regular humans, so…

From inside the bakery he heard Jamie say, "Mom, did you ask him to stay for dinner?"

"Didja as' him to stay forevers?" Will called.

Sally's smile morphed into a grin and she rolled her eyes toward the open door as if to say, _Kids_. Then she gestured inside. Lifted her eyebrows as if to ask, _You wanna?_

This was probably a mistake, but…well, free food. So he smiled, nodded. Came up the steps to the front door. Moving past her, he caught the scent of vanilla and some kind of flower wafting off her skin. He paused for the briefest second as an odd sensation twisted through his stomach. Sally studied him with her honey-gold eyes but said nothing. He got the weirdest feeling she knew something he didn't.

"You know," Sally said, splintering his thoughts, "there's something about you."

He stopped himself from instinctively leaning back from her as she folded her arms across her chest. The assassin waited for her to say something, but her next question knocked him for a loop.

"You ever see birds when there's a really bad storm?" He shook his head. "We've got a pair of robins roosting under the eaves in the back of the house," she explained with a shrug. Shifting her weight with all the fluidity of a dancer, she leaned against the doorframe. "Thing is, our cats usually attack birds but one time this cock-robin flies into my kitchen window, whoop-bam." She smacked her hands together. "Becky of all people rushes outside in the pouring rain, brings him inside. We take care of him for awhile. It's a bad storm, you know, 'cause we're a coastal town. The power's out for like, four days. And the robin's just chillaxing with us, getting settled, healing up so that when the storm is over, he can leave. Go fly out into nature, flappy-flap."

The term _flappy-flap_ made his lips twitch with an aborted smile. "Okay…?"

She held up one hand. She had long fingers, he noticed, slender. She swished them through the air when she talked in a hypnotic motion similar to what Jamie had done to calm Becky when she'd been screaming.

"Just bear with me. One night, the rainiest night, the robin's going stir-crazy, jumping at everything. We have no idea why, he's just spazzing out. Becky's playing with one of her dolls on the floor by the front door, doing her rocking thing, talking to her doll. We've got the robin in a cage so he can't flap around and get hurt. Well, he figures out a way out of his cage and he takes off straight for Becky."

"Okay…" And? "Why did he try to attack Becky?" And what was she getting at?

Sally folded her arms. "He didn't. There was a black widow spider crawling up Becky's sleeve. She didn't even notice or maybe she just didn't realize that those things are dangerous. She was little enough, the bite could've killed her. But the robin swooped in and took out the black widow before it could bite her. Then he flutters back into the cage like nothing ever happened. Next day, the storm ends, sun comes out. Robin flies off. But the funny thing is, he comes back every spring to chill with us for a bit. He didn't forget what we did for him…and I'll never forget what he did for her. But sometimes I wish he hadn't just taken off like that. I wish he'd known that he was always welcome here. That we would've liked him to stay."

He didn't move. Didn't so much as twitch. He wasn't sure…he couldn't be certain…but…

"Someone took Becky," Sally murmured. Adrenaline spiked like liquid lightning through his veins. Sally locked eyes with him. "Didn't they? She didn't just wander off, someone _took_ her. And you got her back."

The assassin had no idea what to say to her. She would catch a lie. She'd let him get away with lying about his name but this? She wouldn't let him get away with lying about this?

"What makes you say that?" He asked. Decades of experience and over two hundred missions had given him the ability to bluff with his voice. If not for Sally's mutant gift, he would've just made something up, but even with her gift he could still believably feign nonchalance.

She cocked her head to one side, eyeing him. "You're bleeding," she said flatly.

It was only then that he registered the blood trickling over his wrist in a thin dribble. One crimson bead clung to the tip of his gloved finger, trembling, while it decided whether to fall or not. He'd forgotten about the slice across his arm. He opened his mouth, unsure what he intended to say. Sally held up a hand.

"I'm not going to make you answer any questions if you don't want to. Just tell me if my kids are in danger. And let me take care of whatever's bleeding. I know first-aid."

He had no idea why the words made him laugh, but he found himself chuckling. First-aid. She had no idea what he was capable of. He could remove a bullet from pretty much any part of his body, set his own broken bones, relocate dislocated limbs, but she knew first-aid and so she was offering to help him. There was something bizarrely refreshing about that. But he just said, "The kids are gonna want their dinner."

Her smile could've peeled paint. "And their mom wants answers. Funny how I suddenly just became mistress of the universe, the queen whose desires are paramount to the order of things."

"As far as I know," he said, trying to suppress a smile, "the kids aren't in danger."

Sally hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Let me fix you up."

He didn't need her help. He didn't need any awkward questions. But she'd said she wouldn't force answers from him. If she asked him something and he didn't want to answer, he didn't have to.

After a moment, he canted his head. She gestured him into the bakery, following him and letting the door click shut behind her.


	5. Afraid of What's Inside

_**Author's Note:**__ so here we go with the next chapter! Woot, woot! Just so you guys know, I try to update no less than once a month. With my Marvel fanfics, I try to do it more often, but right now I'm working on an original novel and really trying to get it completed before the end of the month, so it's eating up my ability to work on fanfiction (especially since my beta has carpal tunnel - not to mention a life - and can only do so much editing). Anywho, so that's what's up with that. So hope you guys enjoy and let me know what you think! And don't hate me at the end._

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**Chapter Five**

**Afraid of What's Inside**

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_11 months ago…_

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The kids were oblivious, happily parked in front of the television watching something about a Hawaiian kid talking about a fish and a bunch of girls in hula skirts. The kids were practically glued to the screen. Jack wasn't sure what they were watching and he didn't really care enough to find out. While the kids ate in the upstairs living room, Sally sat him down in the dining room. She angled herself at the head of the dining room table so she could keep an eye on the four kids. Becky sat ramrod straight with her eyes fixed on the screen. Jamie sat next to her, mimicking her position. Lori and Will, however, were playing with…were those plush Muppet toys and plastic action figures?

Sally popped open the clear plastic box containing the first-aid kit and laid out cotton balls, hydrogen peroxide, bandages and gauze. She eyed him as he slowly pulled off his glove. He never took off his gloves. Hopefully she didn't ask him to take off the other one, or worse, remove his—

"Jacket needs to come off," she said in the tone he'd heard her use with her children and with Peter, the new cashier, more than once. "I can't see how bad it is with you wearing that jacket."

His jacket covered what little of his metal arm remained visible beyond the hem of his shirt sleeve. He couldn't take it off. She would see…his arm. The ice cold, inhuman reminder of what HYDRA had twisted him into. Sometimes, late at night when the darkness pressed close and tasted of ice water and silt, he could still hear the harsh whirring of the saw blade as Dr. Zola's butchers hacked off what little remained of his left arm.

He didn't realize he'd clenched his fists until his knuckles popped. He twitched—more like a spasm—when Sally laid careful fingertips on the back of his right hand, flesh to flesh. Her fingertips were soft. They smoothed ever so lightly over the back of his hand, whispering over the light dusting of hair on his knuckles, brushing over the tiny scars.

"It's okay," she murmured so low the children couldn't hear. "Jack…whatever it is, it's okay."

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. There was no way he could tell her why he couldn't show it to her, why it wasn't in any way okay for her to see what they'd turned him into. Fragments of the man known as James Buchanan Barnes were slipping through his consciousness every day, needling through his brain, and it was all so far removed from what he was now…Cold tried to crawl through his veins like killing frost, but her fingertips skimmed over his knuckles, gossamer heat. He swallowed. Tensed. He didn't know her. Or he barely knew her. He couldn't trust her, even though he liked her. Even though she was a good person. Because how did you tell someone you knew intimately, let alone someone you barely knew at all, everything that made you screwed up in the head? It was so simple, this ability to take his jacket on and off, but HYDRA had made it more because without the long sleeves he was vulnerable, obviously something more and less than human, and—

Sally's other hand touched his hand.

His left hand.

He felt that touch through his glove, felt it in the cybernetic wiring programmed to transmit sensory stimuli to the nerves in his shoulder and on into his brain. Synapses fired wildly at this sudden, unexpected, inexplicably _gentle_ touch. He hadn't been touched like this—gently, without pain—by another person since…since…

He couldn't remember. The last time someone had touched him at all had been aboard the Helicarrier during that final fight with his target…no, not a target. With the Captain. With…And then before that was when the HYDRA scientists had shoved him back in the examination chair, put in the mouth guard, and tried to fry what was left of him into nothing. Before that, Pierce had backhanded him hard enough to snap his head sideways. Sometimes he wondered about Pierce. Wondered how a regular person could be that strong when they were that old. Wondered what would have changed if instead of submitting to the blow, to the mind-wipe, he'd lunged out of the examination chair and snapped Pierce's neck like a toothpick-

"Jack." Sally's voice, soft as a snowflake, cut through the sudden spike of fury. He shot his eyes to her face. There was a look of fierce concentration there, like she was listening hard to something very far away. The worry in her eyes surprised him. But she didn't say anything other than, "Take off your jacket so I can look at your arm. You need help; I can smell the blood from here."

Hardly knowing why he did it, how he could trust her with the secret—with his heart beating in his throat and threatening to choke him—he shrugged out of his jacket.

The slice across his arm burned; it was deeper than he'd realized. It should have closed by now, though. The serum should have mended it. Unless it _had_ mended what damage it could, and the cut had been a lot worse than he'd realized. His black, long-sleeve shirt hid any bloodstains, but the sleeve was stiff across his forearm. And she could smell the blood? _Smell_ it? Even with the serum in his blood enhancing his senses, he couldn't smell it.

To his utter shock, Sally only glanced once at his metal arm before folding back his right sleeve so she could look at the cut. He twitched away from her. She scowled at him.

"Stop that. Gimme it."

"Don't pretend it's not there," he snapped before he realized he even meant to speak. Her eyebrows slid slowly up her forehead. It was easy to read the _huh?_ in her expression. "My arm."

She shrugged. "It's prosthetic. So? What, is it new?" She shrugged again. "Doesn't bother me. A guy a friend of mine went to school with has one kind of like it."

He stared at her. "Like…mine?"

"Sort of. Not quite as sleek, but pretty close. It has a bunch of gizmos and stuff in that he can use, though. Like a can-opener and whatever. It's kind of ridiculous. Very Inspector Gadget. Now," she added sternly, "give me your arm."

He didn't protest again as she reached out to him. He frowned, though, when he noticed strange marks in the soft flesh at the bend of her elbow. They looked like small, round, flat scars or bruises. Track marks. Why did Sally have track marks? But he didn't ask. It wasn't his business. Instead he let her take his arm back. She finished moving his sleeve out of the way. Smears of blood stained his skin. Sally didn't speak as she ripped open an antiseptic wipe and started cleaning the cut. The antiseptic stung in the wound but Jack ignored that, focusing on Sally's crisp, professional motions. It wasn't a deep cut; it didn't need stitches. He wondered what she would have done if it had. Taken him to the local clinic? Whistle-Stop was so small they didn't have an actual hospital.

"You know I've never seen you smile," Sally said suddenly, very quietly. She unrolled some gauze and snipped it with a pair of medical scissors.

Jack frowned. "Yes, you have." He'd been sure to give her a smile occasionally so she wouldn't remember him as a jerk. She'd be more likely to rant about him if a HYDRA or SHIELD agent started asking questions if she thought he was a jerk.

Her eyebrow popped up again. "You know how I can tell when people are lying to me? I can tell with facial expressions, too. I can tell when they're sincere and when they're not. I've made you laugh for real a few times but even then…the smile? It never touches your eyes." She taped the gauze to the long knife-cut. "Speaking of lies, don't tell me one. How did this happen?"

"I thought you weren't going to ask me any questions."

"I said I wouldn't force any answers out of you," she replied. "I can still ask you stuff."

He cast around for something to say. Chancing to see the ever elegant Starbright lounging on an ottoman next to the living room couch, he said, "Didn't anyone ever tell you that curiosity killed the cat?"

Sally's lips curled into a smirk. "And satisfaction brought it back. Bet you didn't know that's how that saying ended, did you?" Her smirk melted into a smile as she finished taping up the wound. "Look, you barely know me. I barely know you. And you don't have my inner radar to tell you I'm not some psychotic ax-murdering circus freak or whatever. But I've got a hunch that you need someone to talk to. And sometimes it's easier when it's a stranger. So…" She shrugged. "I'm here, I guess. It's like a trade. You fix my air conditioner, I'll be your pseudo-therapist."

Pulling his arm back across the table—and why did that feel like some sort of retreat?—he said, "I don't need to talk to anyone. About anything." Remembering that he was trying to be the friendly neighbor guy, he added, "But thanks. And thanks for patching up my arm. I think I'll eat down in the guest house." Forget the free food. This was starting to feel too intense, too…intimate.

"No problem. Jack…" Sally hesitated, eyeing him like she was trying to figure out if poking him too hard would make him explode like nitroglycerin. Finally she said, "I know you said you'd only stay a month at most, but…but don't take off, okay?" His brow furrowed and he stared at her. "I mean…you don't need to leave because of…because of this." She gestured to his arm. "It's nice having you here. I may not find such as easy person to rent to, like…ever." She smiled shyly. "So stick around, okay?"

Baffled, he mumbled something like, "I'll think about it," because he couldn't figure out what else to say, and then he got to his feet and shrugged his jacket back on. The kids were still mesmerized by the television. "About my arm and who did it…the kids aren't in danger. Let's just leave it at that."

She studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Okay. As long as my family is safe, then okay."

"It is. Okay. Good night," he said a little stiffly. "I'll see myself out."

But Sally just kept smiling. "Okay. Good night, Jack."

At the head of the stairs he stopped and turned back to her, suspicious of something. "Why won't you demand any answers? Why are you just so accepting of the fact that I'm keeping secrets from you?"

Her smile widened. "That would be _my_ secret. Trust me—it's a pretty good one. I've got a few. Stick around long enough, I might even tell them to you one day. Good night."

**.**

He didn't leave the next morning, even though he should have. He opened the front door to scan the lot surrounding the bakery around dawn and found one of those white wicker baskets on the porch, full of breakfast foods. The lights were on in the bakery and a few young people were trudging up the steps, muffling yawns and huddling against the early-morning chill. Students from the local high school, he realized. Sally had told him once that she made a killing off the kids who came in for hot muffins in the morning.

It wouldn't hurt to check through the stuff in the basket while he planned how to get out of town. Chewing on a blueberry muffin situated at the top, he considered his options. He'd waited too long to leave without the customers seeing him. Maybe slipping away in the dead of night tonight would work best.

_Stick around long enough, I might even tell you one day_…

What did he care about Sally's secrets? She was probably just screwing with him to seem more mysterious. How many secrets could she possibly have, a civilian like her? She wore her heart on her sleeve. Her face was pathetically easy to read.

Except she kept making him ask questions he hadn't found the answers to yet. How did she do that?

Supposedly she'd killed someone before. She'd said it a little playfully at their first meeting, but at the same time, he'd known she was dead serious. She had a secret that kept her from demanding too many answers he couldn't give her. Where was he going to find another landlord like that? One who didn't complain that he hardly ever came out of the place he was renting? He had lied about his name—_and she knew it_—and yet she still let him pay in cash supplemented with heavy lifting and a bit of maintenance.

This place was ideal, despite the AIM agents who'd been put here. AIM operated in sleeper cells of approximately three to five people. What if there was still one here? He couldn't just pack up and leave after taking out four of them. What if they tried to kidnap one of the kids again to get to him? Sally had his number, and a tech-agency like AIM would be able to figure out if she had a way of contacting him.

How had his life suddenly gotten so complicated? Leave to avoid messy entanglements with the locals but put a bunch of kids at risk or stay and risk being found by HYDRA and SHIELD and still potentially put the kids at risk…He'd been here three weeks. Just three weeks.

He should've left at the end of the first week. Well, too late now. Stay or go? And go when? He'd have to leave eventually, he couldn't just settle down here. HYDRA was looking for him. They weren't going to stop. He couldn't have a normal life.

But there was something about this place…not the town itself, but the bakery. The guest house. Sally. Something that whispered _safety._ He just wasn't sure why. His instincts should've been going crazy at the thought but they weren't. Did she have some kind of hypnotic mutant ability? He'd read about a woman like that who'd used her powers against a powerful man in the US military, nearly killed him. Was that what it was? Or maybe she was drugging his food. No, the serum pumped up his metabolism enough, his body would burn through any sort of drugs. That was why HYDRA hadn't been able to sedate when they'd hacked off his arm and grafted the cybernetic one to his body.

Metal fingers convulsed, crushing the last bit of muffin into blueberry mush. He dropped it to the kitchen counter and stared at his cybernetic hand. A prosthetic, she called it. She hadn't even been fazed. It was like it wasn't even there for her. And that hadn't been a show; her indifference had been a hundred percent real.

What _was_ it with her?

He had to know. He had to determine if she was some kind of threat. He had to find out what her deal was, why she was so mellow about his very not-normal lifestyle despite his proximity to her children. She was obviously very protective, so why didn't she worry about him? And those marks on her arm…they told a secret about her, one he couldn't unravel just yet.

The assassin couldn't leave. Not yet. He had to figure Sally out first. Just in case.

**.**

A week went by. Another. A third week, and a fourth. Sally never mentioned Becky's kidnapping and the police never came by to talk to anyone. His contact must have come through, disposing of the bodies before they could be discovered. Jack continued to keep mostly to himself but he always kept an eye on Sally whenever the upkeep and maintenance she required of him brought them in close quarters. What was the secret she hinted made her so understanding?

Her days were fairly mundane. She ran the bakery, played with her children, managed to squeeze in some tutoring with Becky every day while Peter-the-new-guy worked the register. There was nothing to indicate she had any sort of secret. Googling her, searching the net, even sifting through various government databases—such as the local DMV—yielded very few results regarding Sally's history. She'd spent her formative years in Alabama but run away when she was twelve. The next time she'd shown up was a year later in Manhattan, enrolled in a private school called Xavier's Institute for Gifted Youngsters. Not surprising; the place was a front for a non-government mutant training program run by one of the most powerful telepaths in the world. It had been on the target list for the Insight-Helicarriers two months ago.

Sally had graduated with honors at eighteen and dropped off the face of the planet for more than half a decade before suddenly reappearing in Whistle-Stop, married, and with two kids—Becky and Jamie. What she was doing for the six years she was off the grid, he had no idea. But there was no reason to think, with her limited mutant abilities and lack of prodigious knowledge, that she'd been recruited by any type of intelligence agency. So what had she been doing?

The questions revolved around and around in his brain as he wiped the sweat from his face and fixed the last new shingle in place on the guest house roof. He'd discovered a leak two days ago and Sally had promised him two weeks off his rent if he fixed it so she didn't have to call the repairman—Miguel Quintana's father, the local jack-of-all-trades. Climbing down the ladder, Jack brushed off his hands and scanned the grassy lot surrounding the house and the bakery. It was late, almost seven in the evening. The place was dead, since it was right between the after-school rush and the influx of elderly night-owls. Sally had promised him dinner when he came in for the night, so…

The overhead bell jingled merrily when he trudged through the door. He wasn't tired or sore like a normal person would've been after an all-day roofing job, but he was mentally exhausted from running his brain in circles. He popped onto the bar-stool Becky usually took and lightly slapped the shiny service bell on the bakery counter. As he'd expected, the place was having those twenty-minute stretches where nobody came in. They happened on certain days at certain times; Sally always seemed able to anticipate them somehow. She always said it had to do with her "hunches."

"Bell hop," the baker in question said, poking her head through the swinging doors that led to the kitchen. They were painted with cheerful flowers and vines curling up along the edges, and something green that might've been a giant beanstalk. "Hi. All done? You didn't have to finish the whole thing before you came inside."

Jack shrugged. "I don't like unfinished business." He paused, frowned.

Unfinished business. He still had some waiting for him in DC. Steve was waiting. He knew the super-soldier was looking for him. The former para-rescue, Sam Wilson—he was helping. He wondered if the other man still held a grudge over the way Jack had so briskly ripped off the high-tech flight wings Wilson had been wearing. Didn't know. Didn't matter. His business wasn't with Wilson. His business was with Steve. Before he could complete that business, though, he had to finish his business with the ghost of James Buchanan Barnes, which had so rudely taken up residence inside his head.

Instead of dwelling on that, he asked, "What's dinner? I'm hungry."

She folded her arms across her chest, but she was smiling. "Can I maybe get a 'please' or something in there, Mr. Neanderthal?"

He cleared his throat. "My apologies, ma'am. May I please have some of your delicious cooking now that I've risked life and limb to fix your roof?" He frowned when her eyes widened and a surprised grin flashed across her face. "What?"

"You made a joke," she said, looking like she'd just discovered a pot of gold. "A real one. You actually tried to be funny. You never do that."

Baffled, he replied, "Yes, I do."

But Sally shook her head. "No, you don't. Not in the seven weeks you've been here." He had to fight the jolt of adrenaline that flashed through him. Seven weeks? He'd been here for seven weeks? And HYDRA _still_ hadn't found him? Showed no signs of even coming close to sniffing him out? Sally added as she brought out a plate, "It makes me kind of sad, actually."

Jack focused on her. "Why?"

Setting the plate on the counter in front of him, she said, "You just seem sad, is all. I wish I could fix that. That's what friends do for each other, right?"

Only decades of training and conditioning—reinforced by whatever they did to his brain after the mind-wipes, before the vicious burning freeze of cryo—kept him from reacting to that statement in any way that would embarrass him. Instead he dropped his gaze to the plate of food she pushed toward him and cleared his throat before managing to mumble, "Right." Then he frowned again. "What is this?"

"They're panzerottis."

He raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that a car?"

Her coolly arched brow was as disdainful and slashing as a knife. "That's a Maserati, you heathen infidel. Beware—the gods of culinary goodness will hunt you down for such blasphemy."

"This looks like a turnover. What's in it?"

"Mozzarella cheese, ricotta cheese, tomato sauce, mushrooms minced and lightly sautéed in garlic butter sauce, shredded Italian sausage, spinach, and teeny slivers of pasta," Sally rattled off, looking immensely pleased with herself. "Inside a crust made of pizza dough. Guess what? It involves dough, we make it. You would know that," she added a little sourly, "if you were a little more social and came in here to eat more cupcakes like a normal person."

"The world does not revolve around cupcakes," he replied with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Lifting one of the half-circles of salted panzerottis, he bit into it. Deliciously hot sauce, melted cheese, and all the other stuff she'd put in the thing flooded his mouth. He barely managed to suppress the appreciative noise trying to escape him.

Most of the time, even now, he still couldn't push away the myriad of memories of Pierce and his other handlers taunting him with simple things. A sandwich. An apple. A glass of milk. It was easier—but not easy—to lower his guard a little around Sally, she'd shown him over the last weeks that she had no intention of doing anything to him, but still…there was always that catch. The line drawn in blood, carved into his bones, that separated the Winter Soldier from Bucky Barnes.

Bucky wouldn't have hesitated to wolf down the food and then shower Sally with compliments. The Winter Soldier held him back, allowing him only the words, "This is really good. Thanks."

She shrugged. "I try. And yes, the world absolutely revolves around cupcakes." Her eyes slid to the fifties' style jukebox propped against one wall, all shiny chrome and art deco style. "Hmmm. I hate the quiet." So did he, but he said nothing as she went to the music player, dug a quarter out of her pocket, and punched in a selection. A chorus of guys making bird noises in falsetto filtered from the jukebox's speakers. Sally grinned and spun around, doing a little dance. "Love this song!"

"What is it?" Jack asked after trying for a full minute to place it. It was old, obviously. Something he would know? No, it didn't settle into his head like a memory. It slipped past him, around him. He might have heard the song once or twice, maybe, but not before the mind-wipes.

"'Rockin' Robin,'" Sally replied, swinging her hips and bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her auburn ponytail bounced in time to the music. Jack found himself smiling as he watched her. "'A pretty little raven at the bird band stand taught them how to do the bop and it was grand!' I can't believe you don't know this song. It's awesome. It came out like, in the fifties I think but I heard it on _The Muppet Show_. Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem did it."

"Doctor who?"

"That's a TV show," was her random response. "Don't tell me you've never seen Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem?" He shook his head. "The Muppets?" Another headshake. "Kermit the frog?" He shook his head again. "You've been here for seven weeks and you've never paid attention to what my kids watch on TV? Huh. Well…what kind of musical groups _do_ you know?" Bracing her palms on the countertop, she hoisted herself up. Twisting around, she settled atop the counter, situated so she could see him while casually swinging one foot against the wooden paneling. She leaned on one hand. "Nightwish? Billy Idol? ZZ Top? My Chemical Romance? Disney?" He had to shake his head at every one. "Nothing?"

He wasn't sure what made him say it, but without conscious thought his mouth formed the words, "I like music from the thirties and forties." The decades before he'd been transformed into a mindless killing machine that only obeyed orders. He actually didn't even know if he liked music from that era, but he knew Bucky Barnes did. So wouldn't he? If he _was_ really Bucky Barnes, they had to like the same things.

In the back of his mind, a tiny voice insisted this would be easier if he went to Steve. Steve would know what sort of music his best friend liked. He would know if Bucky had ever had a panzerotti before and whether he'd enjoyed it as much as Jack was enjoying Sally's right now. He should know those things, but…but he couldn't trust Steve to give him the truth. Not when it was so easy to see the stain of guilt shadowing the other man's eyes. Whatever had happened between them, Captain America felt guilty for something, and until Jack knew what that something was, there had to be a wall between them.

Sally drummed her fingers on the counter as she considered his answer. "Thirties and forties, huh? Hmmm…" She perked up. "Oh!" A snap of her fingers and she hopped off the counter, dashing to the jukebox as it fell silent, the song over. She popped in another quarter and punched a couple buttons.

Jazzy trumpets and brass music filled the bakery's front room. They rattled the pieces of his past, slivers and fragments in his head. A few of the pieces jumbled and tumbled against each other. One clicked into place and he realized he knew this song. "Moonlight Serenade." He knew this song. He _remembered_ this song.

Sally spun back to him with a grin. "Come on." Slipping around the counter, she hurried up to him and took his hand. "Get up. No one's coming in for a little bit, I can tell. Come on."

"Come on…where?" He asked dazedly, still trying to process the fact that this song echoed with familiarity in his head. "What are we doing?"

She grinned. "Dance with me."

"What?" He instinctively twitched out of her grasp. Where had this come from? Eating food she'd made for him was one thing—he knew by now she wouldn't poison him, and it was better than anything he could scrounge up on his own—but dancing wasn't something he'd ever expected her to ask him. "Why?"

One slender hand gestured gracefully to the jukebox. "Because the music is incredible. Ella Fitzgerald is one of Becky's favorite singers. Her and Steam Powered Giraffe."

He blinked. "Steam Powered _Giraffe?_"

Sally waved that away. "They're a group. Anyway, the song's slow so even though you're probably tired, it won't kill you. What's wrong?" She cocked her head, studying him. "You look uncomfortable. If you don't want to, that's okay. Just say so. It's fine."

"I…" _Don't want to_. The words hovered on the tip of his tongue, but he knew they were a lie. He did want to. Why? Because it was the complete opposite of what Pierce and Zola and the others at HYDRA would have wanted him to do. Because dancing was something far, far removed from killing. Because he knew this song and he knew somehow that once upon a time, before electric-hot agony and brutal winter, he'd danced to it. He could _feel_ the knowledge of it, memories surging deep beneath his skin like blood. He couldn't touch them, couldn't see them, but he knew they were there. So he took Sally's hand. "Sure. Why not?"

Her smile flashed as bright as a falling star streaking across the sky and some of the tension eased out of his body. Not all of it, but some. This wasn't a problem. This wasn't a fight or a danger. This was resistance. This was free will. He had the choice to dance with someone if he wanted to. He could try to reclaim a piece of his memory if he wanted. She wasn't going to hurt him for trying any of those things.

Some of his confidence faltered when she glanced down at his hand and started tugging on his glove. "Off. This needs to come off."

He pulled away again. "Don't do that."

He curled his fingers into a fist to stop himself from wiping the palm of his left hand on his thigh. Not because there was something unclean about her touch, but because his glove was coming loose and someone had almost pulled it off. A tiny bead of sweat chilled against his temple at the thought.

Sally frowned. "I thought we were past this. I don't care that you have a prosthetic arm, Jack. I want to dance with you. What are you worried about? I'm not going to freak out because you're touching me with metal."

She might. She had hunches, didn't she? She knew things intuitively. Would she know that this arm, and all it represented, made him a monster? A killer? Her hunches had been the main reason he'd been leery of living here to begin with. What if somehow she figured out what this…_thing_ made him?

"Does it really bother you that much?" Sally asked so softly he barely heard her. He didn't say anything. You didn't admit weakness in HYDRA. Not unless you wanted pain. He'd hidden how much the cybernetic arm sickened him for decades. But Sally just offered him a sad smile. "Okay. I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable. I didn't mean to. Do you still want to dance?" After a moment's hesitation, he nodded. Her smile became just a fraction less sad. "Great. Give me your hand. I promise I won't mess with your gloves."

It was so strange, he thought as his left hand curled slowly around her right hand. This metal hand had crushed men's throats, stopped bullets, punched through concrete walls, ripped the doors off a thousand vehicles. It had never touched something so carefully before. His right hand settled against her waist. The warmth of her body radiated through his gloves. The synthetic nerve endings in his cybernetic limb processed that warmth, the vulnerable softness in his grip. He could hurt her so easily and she had no idea. He didn't want her to know. He wanted to be normal while he could, before the hunt for him picked up again.

His body knew what to do even though his mind couldn't remember the steps. As Sally cupped her hand around his shoulder, his body began to sway to the music. The rhythm was slow, easy. He'd done this before. His body knew. It was so strange, the feeling both alien and familiar. Sally stepped closer, hesitant. He forced himself to smile. He wanted to dance. He wanted to remember.

_"I stand at your gate and the song that I sing is of moonlight.  
I stand and I wait for the touch of your hand in the June night.  
The roses are sighing a moonlight serenade…"_

She matched his rhythm, humming along to the melody. How had this gone before, when he'd been Bucky? When he'd been so perfectly, mundanely human? What was supposed to happen during a dance like this? Instinct suggested things he wasn't sure were true, and memory whispered at the back of his mind. Why could nothing be simple? Not even a slow dance?

He'd taken Steve dancing with a pair of girls more than once, he recalled suddenly as the music played on, the song starting over. They'd done that a lot, even though Steve always claimed none of the girls were quite the right partner. The girls didn't much care for Steve, either. Not surprising. It took a lot of people time to see the hero hiding inside that skinny little kid from Brooklyn who never backed down from a fight. Steve was stupid. Steve was a punk. Steve was braver than almost anyone Bucky had ever known.

_Don't do anything stupid until I get back…How can I?_ Steve's voice, a ghost of an echo, weighted down with resigned anger and worry. _You're taking all the stupid with you…_And Jack had…no. _Bucky_ had smiled and said, _You're a punk._

And he'd walked away from Steve, from his family, from Brooklyn, from his home and his life, and gone to Europe to fight the enemy, to protect people, to stamp out the so-called bullies slaughtering people across an entire continent. And he'd snagged on the poisoned razor wire that buffered the enemy lines, tripping and falling with the rest of his men, and Dr. Zola and the Third Reich and HYDRA had taken him and made him into something he'd thought Steve and his family would have never recognized.

But Steve had recognized him. Steve had _found_ him. Saved him. They were more than friends, they were brothers. Always had been. Steve had always tried to protect him, even when he'd been that skinny kid and Bucky had been able to take care of himself. But Steve couldn't take care of him anymore.

Sally's arm was touching his arm now. She'd moved a little closer. He realized he'd touched the edge of his jaw to her temple without thinking about it. This wasn't dancing anymore, even though they swayed back and forth with the song that had started to replay. How many quarters had Sally dropped in that jukebox? Didn't matter. Let the song play, then. They weren't dancing anyway. They were…holding each other. Why? Why didn't he pull away from her? Who had started this, anyway?

He had the unsettling feeling that he'd been the one to bridge the space between them first. His hand wasn't at her waist now. He'd slid it around her waist, his hand splayed across the small of her back. Between his first startled breath at that realization and the next, Sally laid her head on his shoulder and sighed, contented, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Another sigh, and she murmured, "This is nice."

"Yeah," he replied softly before he could stop himself. "Nice."

They didn't speak again as the song carried on through its bridge, _Let us stray till break of day in love's valley of dreams. Just you and I, a summer sky, a heavenly breeze kissing the trees_. They simply swayed to the music, tuned into each other's rhythm. Images flickered behind Jack's eyelids when he closed his eyes. Images of girls, beautiful in their makeup and dancing dresses, eager to be in his arms while the music played. Names danced in his head. Memories flitted by like birds swooping low before fluttering away.

Finally Sally said, "I want you to stay, Jack." He didn't say anything. His silence was a poignant question that he didn't want to ask because he was wondering if maybe he should've said _no_ when Sally had talked about being friends. What kind of friend could he be? He had to leave sometime. Seven weeks was too long. Not just sometime—he had to leave _soon_. But…"I don't want you to go."

"Sally…" He didn't know what to say.

"I get lonely, you know?" She didn't pick her head up from his shoulder or change her position in any way as she spoke. Her breath brushed against his neck, soft and warm. "I'm surrounded by normal people. Non-mutants. They're scared of me. I can't even do anything that impressive because…well, it doesn't matter why, but I can't. I'm so sick of people being afraid of me. But you're not scared. You don't come out of your man-cave much but I can tell you're not."

Then she fell quiet, but he knew somehow that she didn't expect him to say anything. He wasn't going to stay and she knew it. That hadn't been the deal when he'd arrived and that wasn't going to change unless someone presented him with some new information that made it the best option.

They weren't friends—not because he didn't like her, but because he couldn't let himself dwell on how much he liked being around her. She made him feel normal. Human. Which was dangerous with HYDRA breathing down his neck. He couldn't let himself enjoy the normalcy of living in that quaint little guest house, eating baked goods every morning fresh from the oven, playing Mr. Fix-It all the time, and feeling a knot of tension in his chest loosen a little every time Sally smiled at him. He couldn't do that. He couldn't let himself be…

Happy. He couldn't let himself be happy. And in the weeks he'd spent here in Whistle-Stop, he _had_ been happy. He hadn't felt anything close to happiness since…since before his new life had begun in blood and pain. He was happy but HYDRA was taking that away from him once again.

Swearing silently, Jack disengaged himself from Sally. He kept his face carefully expressionless when he murmured, "Thank you for the dance."

Her smile wobbled when she replied, "My pleasure."

"If you don't mind, I'll take those panzerotti out to the guest house and finish eating in there. The night-owl crowd should be due soon," he said. His tone was as blank as his face. "Don't want to get in your way."

Sally sucked on her lips, something he'd seen her do when she was agitated and trying not to show it. She gave him a smile that looked forced and nodded. "Sure. Good night, Jack. Oh, uh, one of the ovens is acting up. Can you take a look at it tomorrow when you've got a moment?"

Sure. He could do that. It would be the last nice thing he did for her before he left. Because he had to leave. It didn't matter how he felt about it, if he stayed much longer he had no idea what would happen.

Happiness didn't factor into it.


End file.
